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Wade Lancaster Sep 2015
You could say she was classless like a Marxist utopia.
From a recent encounter. First attempt at a ten word poem.
mannley collins Feb 2017
The body that I am incarnated in was born in the middle of the very rainy summer of 1939.
My vehicle for life.
All seeing-all smelling --all tasting--all touching--all speaking--all hearing --all sensing --perambulating -singing-dancing-cooking--drinking --painting--******* etc etc vehicle.
Born a few months before the Second World War,with all its nonsensical religiously patriotic and democratically oligarchic and liberally fascistic evil nonsense, started.
Makes me a Rider of the Storm eh?.
Eat yer heart out Jim Morrison!.
Slid out of my mothers womb in the upper room of a brand new house.
Situated on a new street somewhere on a new development on the edge of a 3000 years old walled city in 'gods' own country'--that's what they called it.
Yorkshire!.
First smell I remember,clearly,was rain soaked Lilac and Earth mixed together.
Their scent coming hrough the open bedroom window.
AAAAH rain soaked Lilac.
Second smell was Tobacco from downstairs where my father was anxiously chain smoking.
Then came my first taste.
He,my father,dipped the tip of his little finger into his glass of celebratory Whiskey and poked it into my mouth as I lay there,wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Irresponsibility!!.
Second taste was her warm rich creamy breast milk.
And so my days and nights started.
They told me the name that I was to answer to--as if it was the whole of me.
They told me my beliefs and attitudes and desires and limitations and skills etc etc.
They told me that what I have come to know was my conditioned identity was the real me---but it isn't!..
The lied to me --in innocent ignorance.
My sister taught me to read and write by the time I was 3 years old.
I grew up knowing,deep down, that I was something else.
Not the 'Something Else' that Ornette Coleman played,on his magnificent disc,either.
War raged elsewhere throughout my childhood--mainly across the seas far away.
I watched flight after flight of four engine bombers roar overhead every day ,on their way to drop bombs on children I would never meet.
There was a busy air base 2 miles away from the house I was born in.
Once an injured bomber,coming back from a raid,crashed in flames on two houses at the top of the street I lived in.
I found war to be a hellish and frightening experience.
And along the way I discovered that I couldnt explain to 'myself' who I was, exactly,either.
That my parenters gift of identity was misleading.
I asked 'myself' who or rather what was I?.
By the time I was 3 years I was a ******* from 'Osteomylitis'--or so they told me.
I couldn't walk with massive  left hip joint pain I suffered.
I spent the years from 3 to 6 in a traction bed in a couple of hospitals.
Gobbling down Cod liver oil and Malt for the vitamins--and it worked!!!.
At 6 I learned to walk--YES!!!.
All that pain was left behind.
Thank you Gautama.
My life was suffering but as you supposedly said.
Suffering can be overcome.
And I overcame it.
And I ran and jumped across streams and climbed trees and walked for miles and miles and danced the dance of life.
I foraged for blackberries and wild mushrooms and crabapples and horseradish roots and rosehips and other fruits of nature.
I fell in love with the song of the Yellowbeak--Blackbird to you.
Became enraptured by the smell of wild Roses in the hedgerows.
And I sang and sang and sang and danced and danced and danced.
And all the while I just knew that I wasn't the body that I was incarnated in.
Even though my parenters kept on insisting that I was that body.
And I knew that I wasn't who they had told me I was either.
I knew that I wasn't the conditioned identity of the body that they insisted I was..
At 9 years I passed an exam and won a free scholarship place at a fee paying 'public' school.
My education started in earnest.
Lain and French andAlgebra and Geometry and  expectations of University.
I fell in love for my very first time at around 12 years old.
Raymond was his name.
He taught me how bisexual I was.
I swallowed litres of his body fluids.
Oh how I loved him.
Then after 2 ecstatic years he rejected me because I was a different class to him.
AAAAARGH!.
Then around 14 years the monthly seizures started.
A regular dark descent into unconsciousness.
I experienced the small death of Julius Ceasar and Leonardo Da Vinci.
Back to waking consciousness after an hours out of the body trip into the Astral realms.
Waking with total total amnesia.
With no mind or conditioned identity but both came back within one hour of waking and took over again.
Along with a helluva headache.
But I woke as me--who or whatever that was.
I wasn't who they said I was.
I was me!.
Whatever that was.
Where did I come from?
My purpose in life became to find out what I was and what the source of my existence was.
Teenage life as a rock n roller started beckoned and I embraced party life.
I won cups of silver for dancing very energetically to Bill Haley and Chuck Berry.
I discovered the other half of my bisexuality.
I found girls.
Oh girls how I love you.
and love you and love you.
I started to play trombone at 18 years.
Then trumpet and drums then into my life walked MISS SAXOPHONE and I melted!!!!.
Alto alto wobbly lines of sound poured out from the bell of my alto sax.
I was 23 and toying with buddhism and social alcoholism and playing saxophone jazz(probably badly).
26 and I got married for the first time.
I was playing Free Jazz rather amateurishly by now.
In 1967 I moved to London--became a longhaired hippy--started my own band called BrainBloodVolume--took many doses(literally 1000s) of pure LSD and Mescaline and Psyllocybin and DMT--embraced diet reform--became ordained as a buddhist monk in 1966--played with Jimi Hendrix and John Lennon and the pink Floyd--went to live in the Balearic Islands--Mallorca,Ibiza,Formentera--started to do oil paintings--had a Master Class in Concert Flute playing from Roland Kirk in the dressing room at Ronnie Scotts Jazz Club in London.Became addicted to Macrobiotic Food and Spring Water and puffing Waccy Baccy(always through a Water Pipe..



Its been seventy seven years in this incarnation that I have been wandering the face of this big ball in space seeking the answer to the eternal questions of life.

What am I and where do I come from and what is my purpose?.

And here  is the answer--!!.

I am an individual isness formed solely from a small but equal independent and autonomous portion of the isness of the universe.

Each individual isness is an eternal, small but equal, independent, autonomous,nameless, formless,genderless,classless,casteless,non physical and unconditionally  loving portion of the isness of the universe.

The isness of the universe is the whole of the nature of reality and is the sole source of all existence and is eternal,nameless,formless, genderless,beingless and autonomous and unconditionally loving and is not a 'god' or a 'goddess' or any kind of being.

I live in the joyousness of shared unconditionally loving union with the isness of the universe.
Yenson Aug 2018
Commissar Dumbrov of The Red Republican Army at his desk

Grego, Grego , what is happening with the Regal in the Gulag
Is he mad yet, has he hanged himself and committed suicide

No Commissar, he is writing poetry and growing fat like a pig

Are you crazy, this is a ****** Revolution, not ******* poetry class
Did you not put him through the program.

We did Commissar, we hounded and tormented him, we persuaded his wife to break his heart, we fully destroyed his career, we isolated him, we ruined him financially, we made the proletariat hate him,
we taunted him and provoked him everywhere, we scandalized his name and reputation, we bugged him, we oppressed him, we bullied him, we made him friendless, we invaded his privacy, we mocked him and depressed him, we tried to confuse him, we mix him up. we harassed him with noise, we've terrorize him we've done everything and more. he has not been with a woman for 20 years.

AND HE'S WRITING POETRY, what a pack of ******* fools you are, that's the trouble with you ****** Proletariat, you have no brains, must be all the ****** gruel you lot eat, your ******* brains didn't develop properly, all you ******* know is how to be ***** and violent, any wonder these Elitists see you as nothing but animals. that great Leader of the Revolution wrote, I forget his name now, he wrote that the best and only way to deal with these Elitists is to attack their minds, **** up their ****** brains, make them paranoid and fearful. drive them crazy, turn them into jabba labba locos, dribbling at the mouth locos crazy,

We tried Commissar, we did all the things to make this happen, we spent a lot of time and effort on this, we used all the grape-vines and contacts we have, we even threw the Kitchen sink at him. So far, nothing.

You threw the ******* Kitchen sink at him, what's that for, the Kitchen sink belongs to the State, its not meant to be thrown at ******* Elitist Dissidents.

Its a manner of speech, Commissar.

Now you are a Comedian, are you, a ******* Revolution is going on, we are creating a Classless Society and Equality for all and you are making stupid jokes!

No Commissar, I mean we utilized all resources so far, we have continually harassed him, we have created so much disappointments, betrayals, let-downs, frustrations for him, but he still remains calm, stoical, composed, dignified, erudite and sane.
maybe its true that these people are a different breed. Its frustrating for us and quite honestly, embarrassing!.

Shut up, are you saying he's some sort of Regal Rasputin, even that ****** one, we got in the end, now you're saying this one is bullet-proof. Have you tried Advanced Slander, spread the nastiest rumors about him. So bad to make him take his own life. Who was it that said,  “Show me the man and I'll show you the crime”

It was Comrade Beria, Commissar. Yes Commissar, we have framed him many times and made thumped up allegations against him. We have done all that Commissar, we even said he walks like John Wayne or a broken crab.

Who is this John Wayne, are you a time-traveler now?

Have you tried spreading the rumor that he goes to the Cementry at night and sleep with dead women, he digs up.

No Commissar, I don't think even the stupidest Proletariat would believe that one.

Have you tried spreading a rumour he has *** with a dog.

Commissar Natashavo hasn't been anywhere near him, Commissar

Are you being funny again, Grego

No Commissar!

So what is happening right now with our Mr Invincible Elitist Poet Romanov or whatever his name is,  the MAN that you ******* useless Republican comrades, can't drive mad or make commit suicide, a simple thing, that we have done thousands of times. Why is it that when we do these things to those Class-traitor Proletariat, they die or go raving mad loco coo coo  within six months.

The Proletariat are brainless  cowards Commissar, they can dish it out but they can't take it, Commissar, that's why its so easy for us Senior Members of the Po-lit-Bureau to manipulate and control them. As regards our MAN we are still actively harassing him, we are presently mixing him up again, mentally and doing voice to skull tactics with him. We also make sure he remains frozen in a time warp. This is useful in allowing us to demonstrate to the imbecilic Proletariat that we are powerful and can control people and events, this makes sure they realize our capabilities and might and of course, fosters espirit de corps. It keeps them all in line.

Well that's good thinking Grego, yes, that's good, as regards our Poet, why don't we just blast off his *****.

We did Commissar, but he grew bigger ones!

Are you being funny again, Grego, do you want to be sent to the Gulag in Siberia to keep the Poet company.

No, Commissar, I have a date tonight with Commissar Natashavo!
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Classless

Don’t you know who you are? The face is not thine alone
You come from a long line your disregard forgets
Those who built your name for honor they fought and won
It was not placed in your hand to be squandered simple one

Your looks what waste when ignorance is there found
You took privilege and threw it to the ground
This noble name a standard once held now lost and bound
Take it to prison bars will train give voice to losses refrain others it will prove sound

Money poured out without discretion is not wealth
You show by action and deed your true health
Fixed by the stars in ancient realms they to wore a garland wreath
History could have been your guide waste all that is left to bequeath

Your story now a sad read just a marred edition
You have given the words to a sad rendition
Poor little rich girl you seem to keep with tradition
Wasted moments spell lost hours what a contradiction

We all have so few days they are precious and golden
A sacred trust that should make us always beholden
You defame the family name that richly lies broadly unfolded
Go back to you heritage their you will find the loss and know what you sold
Poetictunes Mar 2016
I bet you think all ****** don't read.
I bet you think all ****** smoke ****.

I bet you think all ****** are the same.
I bet you think all ****** are the blame.

I bet you think ****** don't know nothing about the law.
I bet you think all ****** don't know nothing at all.

I bet you think all ****** are not smart.
I bet you think all ****** don't even care about art.

I bet you think all ****** are from the streets.
I bet you think, oh ****, this poem is getting really deep.

I bet you think all ****** carry a heat.
I bet you think all ****** are dead beats.

I bet you think ****** are thugs.
I bet you think all ****** sell drugs.

I bet think all ****** are classless with statuses of madness
I bet you think all ****** are cashless.

I bet you think all ****** are in the penitentiary.
I bet you think all ****** are cemetery.

I bet you think all ****** rap or trap.
I bet you think all ****** sag their pants with two rags and a stockin' cap.

I bet  you think all ****** are guilty.
I bet you think all ****** are filthy.

I bet you think all ****** rob.
I bet you think all ****** don't have a job.

I bet you think all ****** don't go to college.
I bet you think all ****** are out here wylin.

I bet you think all ****** are like Christopher Wallace.
I bet you think all ****** will grab and ****** you up for your wallet.

Some say a prophet, nah
I just see it how they call it.
Every line is on hydraulics.
Every time I rhyme, every word becomes solid.
Enjoy..
PoeticTunes is the name.
kirk Nov 2018
Fat arses are so squeezable, big bums I rather like
So amplify your cellulite, and step up to my mic
Pins may shake and quiver, if I can score a strike
A Fat **** has more stability, to park my mountain bike

You may prefer a slender girl, with a bottom that is sleek
And fatter girls are not for you, or not what you would seek
Some little arses can be cute, but I want that extra cheek
I need some chunky piece of ****, to reach my ****** peak

I don't want a boney lass, who wears a leather mini
A larger girl I'd rather have, than a woman that is skinny
Imagine a great big ****, bulging out from a tight pinny
Bear arses are acceptable, just look at that Pooh Winnie

Size twenty dress would be fine, but better times by four
With Something to grab hold of, that would thrill me even more
Bigger bums and fatter thighs, that take up the whole floor
Squelching fat I would enjoy, I don't want a thin girl cure

Thin sticks maybe preferable, those girls shaped like a rake
Stupid ****** I don't want, or **** that could be fake
Fat ladies have more bounce, and they will never brake
I don't mind some extra skin, that's sweating like Swan Lake

Larger woman are more fun, they have a wetter gape
There's more to love per square inch, WOW what a body shape
Smother me with all you've got, a complete body ****
I wouldn't be like Steve McQueen, and try The Great Escape

I'm interested in BIG thrills, but I don't want silk or lace
It's certainly a worthwhile trip, if it's shoved in the right place
Delving into the unknown, well I'm not sure that's the case
You know exactly what you'll get, with fat arses in your face

A nice thin *** is okay, but sometimes they're quite drab
Even if your figure's slim, I'd want more **** to grab
I'd rather have a bit more fat, which includes dimples and flab
If your offering your fat ****, call me a mini cab

Excursions during twilight hours, to avoid the daylight sun
I prefer to be in stealth, I'll be on the midnight run
It doesn't matter how large you are, even if you weight a ton
Fat arses I will always grab, now wouldn't that be fun

There's nothing wrong with pertness, so this I will announce
But doesn't a nice fat ****, have extra pounds per ounce
With more to grab and more to squeeze, and definitely more bounce
Big cats scratching for more meat, will always make me pounce

If you are not good looking, and you look like a pig
I'll forgo your outward looks, as long as you are big
Bare your *** in front of me, and give me the gig
You can reach your Top Gear, with a helmet like the Stig

With a *** like the Grand Canyon, I wouldn't want to pass
Mammoth mountains of pure fun, as i lay in the grass
A women laid across the world, with a big fat ****
I'd try extreme obesity, if it's open wide and sparse

So take advantage of me, and let your **** end loose
I'm a man who likes em big, without being too obtuse
Use your fat for basting, and I'll give your **** a goose
We could do well with a good game, according to old Bruce

You may like slimmer ladies, but come on now you gents
A bums a *** after all, so stop sitting in the fence
If you would try a fatter ****, you wouldn't be so tense
Don't be a ******* plonker, you know that it makes sense

Thinner lovers may change their mind, and not think fat is vile
It's just a different point of view, depends on your own style
For that deeper piece of crack, I'd go that extra mile
I don't think a fatter ****, is bottom of the pile

Maybe you don't share my views, but there's something I can teach
A plumper *** would be great, that is within your reach
Succulent cheeks that you can grasp, your hands could have one each
Even James gave it a go, because he had a Giant peach

The perspective of a chunky ****, an amazing smile and crack
That's the exciting view you'll get, when your stood round the back
Its great to feel you way around, when everything's pitch black
You'll find it an experience, if you are right on track

A nice *** I wouldn't mind, so come on where's your *****
Bigger cheeks I can't resist, theres no need to get me drunk
I wonder if the girl next door, has some lovely feeling chunk
Enticement is my spice of life, cos I'm not a ******* monk

To like a larger lady, well It's not classed as a sin
Shallow men may only like, a girl that's really thin
Just because our clientele, are not shaped like a pin
Fatter girls have twice to give, it's like loving the same twin

Some fellows might think I'm blind, and need a pair of glasses
You can leave the lights on, cos I don't think fat is classless
Flash your **** at the back door, and you won't get any passes
Tables and sofa's can be used, to display your great fat arses
Yousra Amatullah Jan 2022
To tell her she is oppressed,
They try assaulting her for the way she is dressed

To command being served,
They try ****** her for the way she was curved

They're the classless that spit upon her key, her name,
For not inviting them freely into her house. What a shame.

Their violation forced humanity to live early life in a tomb,
Unaffected, she carries on, as she carries the world in her womb
Aa Harvey Jul 2018
Revolution: Part one.


The first French King sentenced to death,
Must have a new execution invented;
So that this day shall be forever remembered.
The execution of your King, this invention of evil;
This is how he will finally meet his end and go to the Devil.


The man behind the mask, the executioner;
Will lead us to change to a new world order.


A declaration of civil war, to stop the oppression,
Has lead France to say, we must fight to stop the aggression.
We must be revolting and begin the revolution;
To put an end to the executions.


The fall of the guillotine, for a life time spent,
Writing the encyclopedia, which lead to his death.
There is no place for God, in an encyclopedia of Man;
This writing is illegal, you are blasphemous!  *******!
So the time has come, to take your last breath.
Remember when you see the guillotine... don't lose your head.


Until it's chopped off and ends up in the basket;
Another case of basket case madness.
No fiction necessary, for us to live here on Earth;
But this execution, you surely don't deserve.
So the poets leave France, before the revolution;
All of them heading, back to England.


These prison bars to entrap the young.
Taken prisoner for writing a book.
Follow their rules; free thinking is wrong.
The encyclopedia is evidence enough.


Man is born free and grows to imprison himself;
Then he must follow the orders, of somebody else.
Frances revolutionaries, said let it be, let it be;
But the nation is ruled, by the monarchy.


Imprisoned for what they think, the poets and the artists;
But there are no walls, in the prison inside their heads.
Begin the revolution and make us all classless,
Because they’re chained by society,
For the thoughts that they think.


A fight for equality, a modern day philosophy.
Man is born to think for himself; a revolution is on the way.
Liberty!  Liberation for one free state;
A jaded nation must make a change.


Revolution began, after the fall of the blade;
Now the guillotine of power will stop us being slaves.
Preaching revolution, we must free ourselves of these manacles.
Preaching liberation for the masses
And freedom for the individual.


This new guillotine, the machine of death,
Makes the severed head fall into the basket,
As they take your last breath;
But they can't take your words, from the books you have written.
So fight the power!
Revolution!  Revolution!


We must have a revolution, that is televised.
Che Guevara, Malcolm X, me, myself and I.
All of us willing to join the fight;
All of knowing our view is right.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Olivia Kent Nov 2013
Who.
Is this being alone and alive.
Not posh.
A usual female.
That she is not.
An idiots' brain,
That she has not .
Just unaware.
Who she is.
Or what she's meant to be.
She finds drunks, skunks and rampant punks.

A few with words in common.
So,
Just where does she fit.
In a world of made up pleasantries.
Generally full of it.
Her real life full of imbeciles.

She is really down to earth.
Dug them up.
Hell she is no snob.
Needs another with a brain.
Not just another flipping ****!

Converges with the low life's.
Making them believe they matter.
Increasing being snooty if needed.
Looking down her snotty nose.
In truth she is the same.

Heavens be praised.
They fell back in the mire.
Where all the dreams fell.
Enough time spent with drunks and skunks.
Don't know where I'm supposed to fit.
Guess no-one knows.
The crux of it.
Hell who gives a f**k!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
Daniel Wetter Oct 2014
I look with worried eyes, at social Vines, of flashing lights and a lack of rights.
Human compassion is lacking where it needs to be.
Hate feeds off of hate,
but if thats all it takes,
then love should come so easily.

Bashing in windows.
Spraying with mace.
Choking to death.
Eliminating race.
Classes are gone,
So classless mistakes,
are now made daily
at the hastiest rate.

We’re starving and hungry for the tastiest taste,
of what has become the most delicious
most suspicious,
vicious,
fishy,
repetitious,
superstitious,
vision named freedom.

It's naive to think we’re free when all that we see,
is a sea of beings not being one thing,
and that’s free.
When was the last time you felt it?
And we’ve been given a life long song and dance of "whoever smelt it dealt it".
So if you took the feeling of now and held it,
bottled it up and shelved it,
you would open up to find your mind in decline.
This moment was better
while laters behind.
Thats the path that we’re on
but we have control.
We’re not egos and clothes,
we’re people of souls
We're humans of thought
Not students of hate.
Evil got a head start,
but now truth is in the race.
And if truth is in your face,
and you choose to look away,
then get used to the abuse
and not confused at truce-less fates.
The pre action of action is thinking to act.
I'm thinking that actually we’re ready to snap.
They’ve bent us too far,
for us to go back.
The past is a place where patterns attack.
And people are put
no matter the facts.
Police are afoot
demanding the last,
of freedoms they take them,
and **** them with gas.
A historical scene on Kentucky blue grass
these colors don't bleed,
yet we see they fade fast.
We’ve exceed the need,
to keep things intact.
Got tired of seeing videos online of Police abusing people. What's it REALLY going to take?
As soon as you're born, they make you feel small
by givin' you no time instead of it all,
'til the pain is so great you feel nothing at all;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
they hate you if you're cleaver, and they despise a fool,
'til you're so ******* crazy, you can't follow their rules;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

When they've tortured and scared you for twenty-odd years
then they expect you to pick a career
when you can't really function, you're so full of fear;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

Keep ya doped with religion, *** and T.V.
and you think you're so clever and classless and free
but you're still ******* peasants as far as I can see;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

There's room at the top, they are tellin' you still,
but first you must learn how to smile while you ****
if you want to be like the folks on the hill;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

If you wanna be a Hero, well, just follow me.
If you want to be a Hero, well, just follow me.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UVEnm-LZozU
NeroameeAlucard Jan 2017
If sleep is the cousin of death then all of your dreams must reside on your breath
But death is as constant as the rain
So Like a lions mane wear your dead dreams sewn together proudly like a grass skirt in a luau in Maui

I see, and i know that no one is perfect but was jeopardizing our entire way of life worth it? I know i just discussed dreams earlier on in this piece but please allow me to indulge and talk about this elephant in the room.

Why is it that you thought that a man who is of African descent and a woman would lead us to our doom?
See, like Kennedy a lot of us had dreams of going to the moon and making a difference in the world more impactful than taking off the rest of the day at high noon,
Soon he'll be in office and i can't change that but let's face facts
We stood by and allowed your ignorance an audience we built your hate filled echo chamber that is certain parts of the information superhighway internet

O-******? Classless? Slime? January 20th the end of an error?

We all saw the comments on all the news pages and while those despicable words enraged us we know free speech is a part of what made this country
We have to take the good with the bad but, i do have one request.

Don't expect me to give him a chance as he panned and pranced all over the people who built this country off of our ancestors backs...
Don't expect me to not take him to task lyrically because maybe it'll be all that i have.

He. Is not. A president.

So like i said, sleep is the cousin of death.
But wake up friends...wake up for the mistakes we have to correct...
Political
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
Twenty classless, eight cigarettes. 
Fighting over the radio at the 
Inpatient Mental Health Facility, 
A broken sense of belonging, 
And a dearth of veggie burgers. 

Listless with his lists, of course. 
Angst from the Anglophile, unable to 
Put a stopper in the pouring, 
Bleeding emotions. 
Open hands 
Stained red, and brown. 
Three breaks a day, scarring his 
Broken knuckles, they paint the walls. 

Code Smoking Gun, 
Code Smoking Green, 
Manic man, loading his shoulders with his 
Father’s burden, too big for Atlas’s arms, 
Or his mother’s shunning palms. 

Three breaks a day, 
Knee, shoulder, hip. 
The coffee’s decaf 
But your calves? Well, 
They’re just sore. 

They dish the brick every 
Other evening. But living, for 
No light, only serves to lessen your 
Love of life and make you 
Light-headed.

Broken beds with rock-solid
Pillows. Three breaks a day to
Remind you of your regression. We
Want you here as much.
Why’re you whining?

Busy doctors bust the doors, thank 
God for the freedom, the 
Fluorescent finish to your odyssey. The 
Flowers and grass greet you in 
Shades of pink and green your 
Greedy eyes hadn’t seen. 
Exhale. Ghost out your grieving.
Spent a bit of time "healing" in a "hospital."
Aaron LaLux Aug 2016
Rio Olympics

No more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio,
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,

where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,

Son,
you don’t know me,
allow me to introduce myself,
I’m Aaron Lux I’m a writer,
and I believe knowledge is wealth,

stealth lover yes,
not a stealth fighter jet,
because if you ask me how we can stop ISIS,
I’ll say let’s release the Happy Mist,

they’ll just call it Happy Clouds,

serious as a heart attack with  Cirrus clouds of Happy Mist,

or better yet,
Nimbus clouds,
and citrus sounds,
our reigns begun,
this is a flood not trickle down,

no more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,

where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,

and speaking of sun,
we are live at the Apollo,
like the Greek God of the same name,
trying to fill all theses hearts we meet that are hollow,

hello,
do you want something to believe in,
well how about world peace,
for the people and the planet that we live on,

honestly,

and that is why when I see war,
I don’t think the only way to stop it is violence,
because if you fight fire with fire then you’ll burn the whole world down,
and I’m an eager volunteer fire fighter that’s first in and a final finalist,

where is the Happy Mist,
let’s cover the gun smoke with love soak,
let’s saturate the masses maybe then they won’t be so classless,
and let’s write down this idea before we forget it in our deep pocketbook…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Olivia Kent Jan 2015
In Auschwitz the air hung still.
The dragons are imaginary.
Once they had their fill.
The only gold fell from the fingers of those now perished chosen ones.
The birds crying relinquished flowers.
Lilies all dressed for death.
The classless funeral attire of the blue stripey pyjama death.
Now the camps be emptied.
Those passed inside be free.
Camp be closed.
All souls released, but still the sky hangs heavily.
May God please bless the free.
(C) Livvi
Paul Butters Jul 2017
I am king of the world, universe and everywhere,
But I have only a hint of power.
So all I can give you is attitude.
Just pointing out injustice
Where I see it.

Classes and castes and religious divides
I see as evils
To be opposed
With all my might.

For sure I’ve little might
Of course,
But I still have the right
To say that it’s all wrong.

Classless society is what we want:
Well anyone who’s worth his, or her salt wants that.
Religious discrimination is another thing
We need to remove
From our way of life.

There are many more evils in our world,
So we must do
All we can
To obliterate them
At every opportunity.

I can’t put this any other way,
Poetic or not,
We have to stand
And fight
Against all that we see
As bad.
For the Common Good.

Paul Butters
Angry! Provoked by a documentary on India by Joanna Lumley, featuring the "Caste System".
Vernon Waring Aug 2016
I honestly don't understand
Your riches or your fame
The entire frenzy seems to me
Entirely insane

Your voice sounds ancient and dismal
And drones on with bitter feelings
Truth be told it's not at all
What one might call appealing

I'm not a devoted follower
Who thinks you're simply grand
I think you'd do much better
With a different career plan

Avoid recording studios
Or noisy concert halls
Stay home and count your money
And forget about applause

I know you would tell me
In your snippy classless way
To shut the **** up
And quietly go away

To which I will repeat
My title's earnest cry:
No more "Hello" Adele
It's time to say "Goodbye"
Michael W Noland Dec 2012
I never met a rapper that was NOT an actor?, or could spell for that mater, its chapter after chapter, of the foolish factors of classless babblers, talking the talk, stalking the block, with no knots in their pockets, locking the flock, to the same ol dumb ****, its redundancy in abundance, its fun, its the fumbling and stumbling of an idiot on the run, on my sentences with cleverish senses, commencing a commitment to the trenches, of my solo sessions, of the same ol dumb ****.

Same old dim wit, running this ****, into the ground, making a name, and destroying the sound, in profound love of my ol dim-lit town of drowning suns, and hippie drums, rain bound, in howl to a moon that seldom makes it through, but when it do, it means more to you, to be continued ...

Never mind im through.
Martin Narrod Oct 2015
I'm heaving prose at you and you don't even know it. Like fish jumping into a boat that's empty. Having risen before, being brave would seem easier, lighter maybe. Like great fluff or a fugue of an earthy red wine. My tear ducts are hollow drums, if I could I'd give you a metaphor about weeping, but I'm wept out and worn out. I'm not tired or worn down. I'm an obelisk, or a saber perhaps. I'm good coffee from a specialty roaster, but I come in a to go cup. Coffee should never be consumed from a to go cup.

You're one of those pennies people pay one dollar and one cent for, stretched out with new print on them. At the zoo they can be bought. At places where the middle class can be classless they can be bought.

You were once a starlet. A golden and imperfect deity. I'm still worshipping you. You're my startling ******, but the rigging is busted. Now I'm onto acid washes and back on ivory. Maybe you didn't mean to leave cue cards and question marks like keepsake memories under our bedroom duvet.

I'm only asking for you.

While I **** around each new city in the jargon of a Calder sculpture. I've punched door mice and killed rattle snakes with the heel of my foot. Step on with the right and bring your fingers to your lips. I've been calling good luck for decades now. Julys Septembers and Novembers too.

Just a regular guy with a big ******* rooster.

Some girl said we're swimming for each other in the dark, but I know your eyes have adjusted to the light. Don't compensate for ordinary experiences. Realize what I realize and taste the snow.
SøułSurvivør Oct 2014
~~~


A rich woman
Walked down the street
She met a workman she didn't greet.

But though they didn't
Stop to TALK
They were able
To exchange THOUGHTS...


Hey! Look at me! I'm all that!
Think you're cool with that
baseball hat?

I'm in my designer clothes
I'm Dior from head to toe.

I have snakeskin shoes
And pure silk pants
My perfume comes
From Paris France...

Designer Bags and golden rings
Jeweled tiaras and a
Real mink coat?
What to do with such trivial things?
Except wallow in the
Superficial joy they bring...

Please. Humour me
With stacks of DOUGH
That's street lingo
For cash you know.

I'll sit here and strum my guitar
Whilst I look up
And count the stars...

Please... take your spoils and go...
I don't have time for spoiled souls
I'll enjoy the things that matter most
While you celebrate
charades and toast.


If life's a charade,
At least I'm a player!
You're sure not gonna
Run for Mayor!

C'mon DOUGH BOY
You know that you want
All the goodies that we flaunt!

Yes... I have a real MINK!
And my money has a STINK

But who supports
The people you are?
Why! You're nothing but
Shiftless POOR!

I ain't gotta pay
to play this game
I got a Full Heart I'm all IN!

You can't just buy
Yourself some PEACE
I've learned life lessons
To pay my lease!

Your whole life is inside your wallet
And I'm sorry... but I must call it...

Inside your soul is
bankrupt and foreclosed
It's sad to see happiness is posed

Shiftless, classless and
OUT OF STYLE
But your pretty golden pennies
Ain't worth my while...

You've got cash, but it's just CRASS
Lady. Take your fortunes and

KISS MY BOOTS!!!


WELL! I never!

The last thing she thought
As she hurried away.
She's filthy rich NOW...

... but one day she'll PAY.



(C) SoulSurvivor
(C) Frank Ruland


~~~
A true JOY working with Frank.
He gave her the final SAY!  Lol!
doesn't matter how i hold it,
liquor in my hand brings shame to the man

i've sat at hundreds of dinner tables,
watched the women politely drink their water,
nobody stops their husbands from making fools of themselves
and my father takes pride in never having asked to be picked up from a bar
there's so much more i expect in a good man than sobriety

i drink to forget, more often to mourn than celebrate
i am classless, i am not marriage material anymore

it's 1:15 in the morning, and i see brown curly hair
and heartbreak wearing it like a costume
approaching me

6'2" and probably a little younger than me
still, he gets to be the tower
even though i've been here longer

you can't hear wedding bells in a place this loud
i took a (tequila) shot in the dark, and kissed him like i meant it
Aaron LaLux Sep 2016
Rio Olympics

No more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio,
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,

where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,

Son,
you don’t know me,
allow me to introduce myself,
I’m Aaron Lux I’m a writer,
and I believe knowledge is wealth,

stealth lover yes,
not a stealth fighter jet,
because if you ask me how we can stop ISIS,
I’ll say let’s release the Happy Mist,

they’ll just call it Happy Clouds,

serious as a heart attack with  Cirrus clouds of Happy Mist,

or better yet,
Nimbus clouds,
and citrus sounds,
our reigns begun,
this is a flood not trickle down,

no more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,

where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,

and speaking of sun,
we are live at the Apollo,
like the Greek God of the same name,
trying to fill all theses hearts we meet that are hollow,

hello,
do you want something to believe in,
well how about world peace,
for the people and the planet that we live on,

honestly,

and that is why when I see war,
I don’t think the only way to stop it is violence,
because if you fight fire with fire then you’ll burn the whole world down,
and I’m an eager volunteer fire fighter that’s first in and a final finalist,

where is the Happy Mist,
let’s cover the gun smoke with love soak,
let’s saturate the masses maybe then they won’t be so classless,
and let’s write down this idea before we forget it in our deep pocketbook…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Brazil For Real... Let The Games Begin...
Big Virge Jul 2015
So What Does This CLASS Thing...
... Mean To YOU... ???

Someone Who Went...
To A... " Public School "... ?
Or A Gent In A BOWLER...
Whose Demeanour Is Cool... ?

Well....
If This DEFINES Class To You... ?
Watch... Laurel and Hardy...
They Wore Them TOO... !!!

But All They Did Was...
... Act The FOOL... !!!!!

ME... Well I Went To...
Your Average State School...
Surrounded By Kids...
With A Few Who Were Fools... !!!

And Some Came UNSTUCK...
... WITHOUT Any Glue... !!!

Cos' They Left School...
WITHOUT Paying Their Dues... !!!

Like... LEARNING In Lessons...
Instead of GIRL STRESSING... !!!

Well I'm The TEST PRESSING...
That Proves That Some Lessons
Can Leave People STRESSING... !!!!!
And Yes... Second Guessing... ???

What Class Am I From... ?!?

I'm... NOT From A Class... !!!
Except A... " Classroom "...

But THAT ISN'T TRUE... !!!!!!!
My Mum And Dad KNEW...
What Couples Should Do...
In The... "Privacy of "...
A... " Double Bedroom "... !!!

IC1... IC3... ?
How About... IC2... ?

Do These STUPID Groupings...
DEFINE... What Is YOU.... ?!?!?!?

Well... If They DO...
Good Luck To You... !?!

But Police Like The Government...
DEFINE Who They CHOOSE...
Just So Their PUPPETS...
Can... DISH OUT ABUSE... !!!!!

Being BLACK Is A Class...
ALL of It's... " OWN "... !!!!!

Cos' Most OTHER Folk...
... DON'T Enter The Zone...
Where Blacks Are Deemed...
To Live UNCONTROLLED.... !!!

I've LOST CONTROL...
A... Couple of Times... !!!

But Now I Stick To Writing Rhymes...
To Show My Class By Using MY MIND... !!!

Class... DISTINCTIONS...
Go With NARROW Minds... !!!

While Words I Write...
DEFINE The Times...
WITHOUT Class Signs... !!!

I'm Just Another VICTIM...
of... Western Systems...
That KEEP US... A P A R T...
By The Use of.... " Isms "....

... " CAPITALISM "...
Is A CLASSLESS... Ism... !!!

Cos'... If You BELIEVE...
You're Just CASH DRIVEN... !!!

While... " RACISM "...
Is A... Class Filled Ism...
Where Blacks Are Deemed...
To Be... FIT For PRISON... !?!?!

But That's NOT ME...
Cos' I Haven't Been In Em'... !!!!!

I Grew Up........
In London... " West Ealing "...

But This DOESN'T Mean...
That I'm Liking DARJEELING … !!!

This Class Thing Needs CLEANING... !!!
Cos'... Living This Life...
Does NOT Have A Ceiling... !!!

This AIN'T Monty Python... !!!
Life Has... DEEPER Meaning...........
Than Visions of... " CLASS "...

Houses For LOUSES... !!!
And I'm NOT Talking Scousers'... !!!
They're ALL Right With Me...
It's People From London...
With... NO CLASS BELIEVE... !!!

I Can Tell By Their Looks...
When They're Looking At ME... !!!

These People Are FULL of HYPOCRISY... !!!
This IS How CLASSY TRUE Londoners Be... !!!

Who Then Have The CHEEK... !!!
To DEFINE... Who I Be... !!?!!

My Father And Friends...
Used To Run In BARE FEET...

My Mum Used To TEACH...
And Both of Them Came From...
That... Bajan' Country...

With Sugar Cane Fields...
And White Sandy Beach...

My Father Is NOW...
An... OSTEOPATH... !!!

So Let's LOOK At That...

He's Treated STAR Athletes...
And White Folk That's FACT... !!!!!

Does THIS Give Me A PASS... ?!?
To Be... " Middle Class "...
Even Though I Am BLACK... ?!?

This STUPID Class Question...
Is Simply A... FARCE... !!!

Divisions Are... VAST...
Like A Galleon Mast... !!!
But BREAKING These Boundaries...
Is A Task... BEYOND Class... !!!!!!

And This Is UNCERTAIN... ?
Who... REALLY Has... ?!?

.......... " CLASS ".........
British folks and their ... " Groupings " ... !!!
Owen Phillips Jan 2011
Overman—
Follow you the music of a generation
Premonitions of the culture
Constantly unseating one another
At the throne beneath your soapbox?
Quarrel you with Parrish Priests and
Local Lords and
Moneyed Many and
Other Overmen?

Overman—
Speak you in uncommon tongue
Through veils of bourgeois idols
Through clouded visions blinding you to pleas from those beneath
Through impenetrable barriers about your plywood castle?

Overman—
Reject you any god lain at your feet,
Any miracle as trivia,
Any sincerity as foolishness,
Any ethnic pride as blasphemy,
Papal Pagan figureheads as absurdity?

Overman—
Have you children born unnaturally,
Brothers cross the moonlit gulf,
Sisters of incestuous intimacy,
Fathers of musical prowess,
Mothers of a warm genetic lab?

Overman—
Your day is coming
One hundred million of you
In synchronistic harmony
Of uniform variety
Of classless social rigidity;
Becoming one with the orbital network,
A single entity to govern life among the planets,
An immortal computer god
Expanding past the reaches of
The spent and worn-out orb
That keeps revolving, spiraling downward,
Closer, closer to the sun—
Overman, will you outlive them all?
Overman, you were there first,
Will you be the first beyond?
The term "Overman" comes from Walter A. Kaufmann's translation of Nietzche's *Also Sprach Zarathustra*
Born May 5, 1818, in Trier Germany
     to Heinrich and Henrietta Marx,
sans the third of nine children
     (and second oldest heir)

     Karl Marx thinking begot incendiary sparks,
asper his two most controversial publications
     titled The Communist Manifesto,
     and Das Kapital

which political philosophy
     incubating seeds of self destruction didst birth
doctrines of class struggle,
     historical materialism, dearth

of equitable wealth, and inherent
     contradictions of industrial capital
     distributed unevenly
     across avast swath of Earth

thus inviting his perspective
     (conveniently exploited,
     mined, and usurped) advocating
     the working class (proletariat)

     to expedite organized revolutionary action
to topple capitalism and bring about
     socio-economic emancipation,
where wages of sin exchanged for labor bled

fingers to the bone life source, viz proletariat
     till slaving laborer nearly became gratefully dead  
despite being cased in 12 point
     Times New Roman garb, who incessantly fed

insatiably maws of production,
     (no way to get a supportive talking head)
particularly highlighted
     within schema of Capitalism),

     a predominant paradigm
     stratifying society led
to internal tensions engendered
     between bourgeoisie red

dilly controlling means
     of production codified as said
as die a critical approach Marx coined
     as historical materialism,

    where figurative landmines forced one to tread
gingerly, thus above stated philosophy
     would supposedly lead down the road
     where self destruction wrought marriage
     birthing Socialism offspring from shot gun wed

     ding, thus coaxing eventual establishment
of classless communist society meant
to establish free association of producers who spent
exchanging merchandise amidst classless
     campy population hood pitched a tent.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2022
We all saw you on TV. See
we all felt you, on TV.
We effectually react/ or change the channel.

Seeing with, you and I, we seeing
we share science, we know bits
of many common childhood mystery
religion moralizing stories, animating
representative good and evil having beings,

eaters of roots and seeds;
eaters of blood, raw flesh;
eaters of the processed meat, made
from what clams eat, while making pearls
worth the merchant's speculation, see,
look, if this pearl were thine to own, yours
alone. If this pearl were thine, to form
using layering lightflex laminate fluid to form,
smooth curve force to mollify vitious spikes
as one creature soothes the pain caused,
when a certain signal calls for pearling,
biometric symbiotic gnosisnot using
a natural pattern found in viscous,
snottish fluids flowing just above
the bottom line reality, priced per
one man estimated ethos, may
haps, taken and called granted, per
happenstance, standing, there take it,
weigh the worth, at least, it cost you
this much attention, and left
an edge to look over…
take this thought,
taste test, notice salt, hmmm.
-- such taste, sweet
-- such taste sharp, and bitter…
Notice sticky hook to any attention paid
-- remember, re
member reading for all the roles…
This Is Your Life,
unforgiveable forethought odd after effect.
-- taste and see, we all are good, our lies are evil.

Novels in genres, are stories in familiar
feeling places. The realmmmm re-creational
master of monstors degrees, stages, steps,
tic to last held thought, ties to all held thoughts,
- who buys horror and shame hero stories?
- who buys cops are Platonic Guardians stories?
- who buys we, that people, are stories?
Vicarious as the pope,
we feel the ef
in efforting to display the glory of knowing.

- ceasing to effect the art's official form of love,
- sincere affection, effectively applied plasterwise.

Nothing new, sort of classless, drivel, driving assumptives
sorted on commonalities, professional confession,
yes, we guessed you exist, so we said
I do this for money, or
no,
I do this to make pearls, when something in me
is grinding at my gut, make, make, make me,
a pearl none shall ever see,
make me, think.

On earth, as in my own peace of mind, let it be.
Awen. Amen, and all the other translations of make it so.
The narrow focus keeps the hearth alight. Thank you for being my dear reader.
With the Passion of Cassius smashin' the classless and the facist
With the vernacular of Malcolm and paired with such passion the outcome attacks with tact and impact because in it's very nature it is offensive
With the cosmic knowledge of Albert, but we do not speak in relativity,
Only what is exactly no biased or levity
With the strength of a million men, no, a million pens, because I'm told the word is mightier than the sword,
But I've seen a man bring a pen to a fight and swiftly his life was no longer his right but a privilege he had once taken for granted
And the man who brought a sword to fight with honor was honored to die from a distant spiraling bullet because even the art of war has evolved beyond civility
That's why I wear Teflon vests, but never a mask, to make sure they look me in the eyes to get rid of me...
I had a big expository paragraph about this one but it sounds better as an ambiguous jumbled mess lol.
POSSIBLE Feb 2016
This depression gives the impression

that the expression of a burnout is…

me

living and loving intently free

prison depends on jailhouse babies and legal **** ; weee!

we must organize expression of a quantum size, to re-realize more food and supplies

its such a surprise that id be thinkin this, engineering instruments with a pnuematic hiss

geared towards the questioned technocolypse….

“…well here on the graph we read an elipse, a parabola, and a demonic kiss…”

But whats this?

im’ channeling some quick quips ; alluring as a brothel’s contained hips with the open smile of sideways lips….

my daring is preparing all the world for destructive repairing

cause the frogs and the rains are staring

at this desolate earth

a burnt out hearth

with smouldering ashes, speaking of a crying birth

while the midwife is sick and shy with little self worth and curse; because a as a witch she doth rehearse

while the moonlights smiling and the phones texting and dialing

“Whats wrong?”==”Are you ok?”

“…but come on?”==”Is there any other way?…”

[please oh please let me stay in this old and bloodied fray; where the battles had axes and handles

where there were stories of travels, to faraway places leading to exotic geographic stasis]

caught in the moment of thought, a moment of fright…

until we stop and put a light to these wierd words

we wont know what the birds have heard….

Click crshhh….*

BURN little match like the wood you are!

combustion of suggestion set ablaze from afar

a flame throwers burned hands

while the pained sower , frustrated, changes plans

because in the end one one really understands

the torment of a floment spent eternally alone in atonement.

(=purgatory)

Where all you want to do is get on the phone, external validation felt at the tone,

but it really ain’t ****

because you are crying while its dialing and your out of minutes…

so check this bits of imaginary meaning and ****

ponder and quit

when you seek to make amends and introduce fake men to our imaginary friends

i keep on thinking…keep on blinking

wishing for emotion to extend

SO I think the words

AND I write whats heard

but haven’t YOU heard

from the little ittie birdie whos been certainly flying, singing and free

that im not mentaly sturdy, quirky, and ******…

LOGICALLY

iknow

sophistry

ishow

emotionally

Hol…………­……………loW

I guess it just goes to show that when you at home your never reallly  alone, because to you, the voices do drone
about

how much sandpaintings and ***** can be blown,….

away with a CLICK…BoooM

beaten with a stick….AH

shoed a away with a kick….

START my heart! I know better than this!

so I better think quick

before i stay mentally sick

as an alien who has forgotten it’s world

got on a roller coaster; spinned and whirled

till im spun and twirl’d

on this game we call life, with simple **** and complex hype,

hives of concepts meanings and thoughts….to derive daily quit failing

i miss haley :( , even phailee….

so I ask little voice in my head , since everyone has left will you stay instead?

come a little closer and hop into bed

so we can share the warmth of one last self-referencing infinity loop….

…..BEFORE i wake up and forget whats ashore

because im out at dream sea with clouds free and galore

but as soon as i stop thinking i know ill return to the me that i abhore

with pain and saddness deranged

omit school so classless and strange

as a failed out actress sick with mange.

but i know these negatvie moments are just flashes , to make me appreciate self motivated happiness…

so here you go

its me on the page, skelly the sage….

i just hope to god that I could set the stage 4 nirvana or heaven, we reach zion in seven

6

5

4

3

2

1

I love you.

Its over

i won myself over

like a sad kids redrover

thanks for letting  m3 share these freestyle thoughts i kant bear

im  alone no more, i seem to have exhausted my sadness store

and after venting i realize…. its a lot ******* bettor.

“Isn’t it eeeire howletting yourself feel sad

can make you feel soo much better?”
Graff1980 Nov 2014
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality

The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class

A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence

But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies

Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity

Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled

Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it

Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of

The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity

Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things

So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic

I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire  
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding

I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses

But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice

Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Sometimes Starr Mar 2019
I watched the craggy old man at the far end of the bar besiege his liver with absurd amounts of *** and Coke. It was entirely classless, like he was drinking his obsequies in plain sight of everyone. Not that ‘everyone’ amounted to much– it was a Tuesday, and there were seven lost souls scattered around Nightingale’s. Four of them were shooting pool. Big arms, tattoos, Harleys out front. Another two were puffing cigarettes through their fifties, probably talking about this ****** generation of kids and doing lines of 80’s nostalgia. A few seats from them was a loner (sporting a white braided ponytail and a rawhide vest, you know the type) sitting by himself, looking very divorced. He was engaged in conversation with the bartender, a black-haired ***** with enough experience. Occasionally he’d throw some whisky down his throat. Keeps the fire going.

But it was the sorry ******* in the corner who interested me more than anyone else, mostly because he had such blatant disregard for his own life. I watched him guzzle his eighth *** and Coke since my arrival. He was moving around so much, it was a wonder he stayed in his seat.

The light caught his addled face. You could see that maybe once he was handsome, but time had forced him to wear bad habits out. It made me wonder how. How and why.

“You know, all that Coke can’t be good for your bones,”

Awkward as hell, but it was the best I could muster. The words hung in the air, dry as scotch.

“You realla think I give a ****, dude?” he slurred. He sorta twitched when he spoke… I got the feeling he’d been at this for a while.

He belched loudly.

I let the stench of alcohol, depression, and **** excuse my hesitation.

“Well, why don’t you at least change it up a bit?”

I ordered him an old-fashioned. It really didn’t make a difference. The man was going to drink himself to death anyway. You could see it in his eyes.

He held up the drink loftily, considering it. He smiled wryly and looked at me.

“Thanks,” he said, and gulped the whisky down.

I began to grow unsure of the whole thing. Coming to this ****** pub, talking to this reeking old man… Hell, moving to Denver at all. I’d come here to forget things, but had yet to find anything of real substance to push old memories out…

He slammed his glass down heavily on the bar.

“You smoke grass?” He lobbed.

Interesting.

I followed him outside and tried hard not to be obvious as I inspected the joint he passed me. Not wet. I guess it’s fine.

“Do you live around here?” I asked, passing back the joint. The quality of **** surprised me. Strong sativa.

“If you can call this living…” answered the most depressing man in Denver.

I couldn’t take it anymore, so I just asked him.

“What’s wrong, guy? Why are you so **** sad?” I said.

“It’s really ******* stupid,” he said, turning. “It’s actually ******* insane.”

I pulled on the joint and waited for him to spill his guts.

“A long time ago,” he went on, “I was a lot different. I used to kiss all the pretty girls and make 'em cry.”

He sobered up a bit.

“But then one came along who I won’t forget. Too wild to be tamed,”

He looked down at the sidewalk and tossed the roach at it.

“Lost my ****. I rammed my car into that *****’s house and tried to take off. 'Course the five-o caught up with me and I ended up in jail with two felony counts.”

“**** dude,” I offered, “That’s crazy.”

“Yeah, I was a ******’ lunatic. Stopped caring after that. Been bouncing around ever since. Can’t get comfortable. Can’t get a good job.”

“I’m sorry,” I offered.

Nothing interesting happened after that. Bruce went on about his ex for a while, speaking highly of her. He told stories about days they shared in Pennsylvania. He told me all about her art and writing, and how he had obsessed over her for years, making her into a metaphor for death and loss. I listened to him ramble for quite some time, but after about half an hour I stopped caring and had to take my leave.

I lied to Bruce and told him I had work early in the morning.

When I got back to my apartment, I collapsed onto the futon and looked dramatically up at the ceiling. I got up and went to my desk. I opened the little drawer on the left.

I pulled out Nora’s picture from underneath my paystubs and saved bills. I thought about Bruce’s story and the smell of **** and alcohol. I felt pity for him– pity I didn’t want anyone to feel for me. Still, there was a clog in my throat and my eyes stung with emotion.

I sincerely hoped that Nora was having a great time in New Zealand.

I opened my window and let Nora’s picture fly into the unfamiliar city. I collapsed back on the futon.

It wasn’t comfortable
Draft 1
Olivia Kent Aug 2015
Somewhere in the world my loves.
Love is missing.
Missing in ministries, filled with the cry of the heartbroken wenches.
Stuck there perhaps for ever.
Muddy trenches.
Lined with lace.
****** soldiers losing face.
Their whips made of satin strands, taken from chocolate boxes.
Locked up in closets from the school of hard knocks.
Long lost in mines, emptied long since.
Little old ladies, with cute purple rinses.
A receipt signed in dragon's blood for the pain that they gave.
Save for the memories of snowdrops in June.
Once he stood there in doublet and hoes, a classless cavalier, who left much too soon.
At the base of his mountain from where she once fell, lived a tale on a lion and that I can't tell.
Only the lion can, the lion he's the main man.
(C) LIVVI
A Nonsense poem
Lydia Cooper May 2013
Where are the greats of my generation?

The great artist and thinkers.

Will there be another Warhol, Basquait?

Of course not.

Are we doomed to a worth set by numbers?

Are we doomed to have language become a nuance

Where conversation is useless?

Where eye contact and subtle glances

Become fiction for Romances?;

Where is the fire in our youthful souls?

We want to be heard so we take another poll

One thousand nine hundred and three.

We gained the ability to reach the masses

But we chose to be classless.

Always looking out for the last

-Ist.

Where are the greats of my generation?

— The End —