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Sid Lollan Aug 2017
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(Authors of (obligatory)
Redemption: what is true genius if it ain’t dead yet?
Let you, who **** it, not be present for its resurrection.)

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i had a nightmare:

i opened the door of my ranch-house in the boonies of
southern pa.
out-into the grasses of the old Congo;
There stood the Lion.
20 feet away
i, frozen in the magnitude of his vision;
spirit, dominated by his
completely;
Not even a growl.
i remained
paralyzed—he licked the backs of his paws
and combed a wiry mane...
…a halfa-second was a year if it was a halfa-second now...
but
somewhere in there
i regained my legs and without knowing
pivoted,
grabbed the doorknob. Twist. Open. Step inside.
turn to close the...doorway is gone, the house has vanished
And
HE WAS RIGHT ON TOP OF ME

i was nothing but-a body of plastic fear
molten,
melted and cast into mannequin limbs and head.
i could feel the Lion’s entire, real
spirit crushing spirt
on my hollow caste self.

his breathe stunk of blood that
forced my replicaego into infant curl…
…Finally, the beast roared a canyon
i shivered!
a shiver that shook inside my head
thru the spine to shake
my bones inside the bed.

Thru the constricting red curtain of bloodclot eye
spy the tiny eclipse
of the Black Crow inna massive sheet of african sun;
i must be dead already.
The Lion feels the Crow perched onna cape fig nearby
and his muscles tighten accordingly, his beastly hunger
displaced by boiled-blood anger.

Eye-to-Eye
with the beast
where Fear has reached saturation-point;
it is Nothing if it is Everything…
…the Crow lets out a hiss
like spikes of radio-static, interrupted by series
of whooping-caws…
…stomach vibrated by the Lion’s low,
almost internal growl. For the
first time, his tranquilizing orbs
divert from mine
to capture the Black Crow perched on the dying cape fig.
uncertainty taps my shoulder…then…i feel my body;
the weight releases
and as i motion to rise from the grass and dirt, the Congo dissolves and i’m
sitting up on my mattress with broken springs in the humid
summer slumber of southern pa.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

-What security?
programmed,
under deep-cover;
jungian re-uploads. Them. Resurrected witha blackmarket
medicine a Witch Doctor devolution;
Replicate, regenerate, forever
<01100101 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100111 01110010 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101000 01100101 01100001 01100100>
Bottom feeding grave robbers and tomb vandals are all they are!-

-Better check what ya put down here…liable to shape a ghoul,
and you know this haunt is made-up of enough spooks-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Professors of chaos preach:
O wanderers!
write me the manifesto
walking atop a line of hot coals
-I smell me some burning soles-

(They intend to:
Pour, pure from cold-clear spring-spout
      into muddy-brown-clay, dissolved,
rushing against dried-up bones of gully-walls…
…the Crow just sits above
         and laughs there

Don’t ya see it?)

History
is not about the past,
but
about what the present
can mold the past
into
for the future.
-the marble’s trajectory sure to
flip onnit’s axis d’pending on which record you dig-

(One mistake
can a coward make
or
one accident happen
up-on that a martyr stake’d.
etched in the rut of each separate fate;)


The lion
must roar for his P R I D E
        (or?)
lion wears his hide
as a mascot
Black Crow eats crow egg blues
        black crow spotted me yellow in the bushes
pants down, gun-in-hand
-send your prayers-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Jared Eli Dec 2013
There once was a boy who was but a slender
Line in a portrait or a smudge on a fender
Nothing more than would be passed by your eye
Was the boy so young who did nothing but cry

The world was a cruel one, but he wasn't so tainted
His picture more perfect than of David's statue painted
But the world would soon tear this boy apart
It would end in the mind what began in the heart

You see, innocence thrives where ignorance rules
For blissfulness is the kindest of the ignorant's tools
But this boy would be taught to feel and to hurt
His tears turned to ash as they fall from lips to dirt

He was now cold and ****** and swore
His opinions had changed when his brother died in the war
There was no point to heaven and less point to hell
When they called out your name, you either stood up or fell

Chipped bricks covered in posters past
Graffiti from people of phrases that last
Like one-liners, humourless, gaining a laugh
And the three-word with the sketch of a heart cut in half

The best philosophes of this past generation
Write thoughts on the wall from their closed imagination
And the boy with his eyes red grew darker
As he reached in his pocket and pulled out a marker

With a couple quick slashes a ballot was drawn
And he labeled the man in the voting booth "pawn"
Underneath it he wrote what might be a phrase
That just didn't catch on in those olden days:

It said, "A stone cast down as in defeat
Will hit thine foot before the street
For he who gives up his voting right
Will have no say in where we fight."

The boy capped the pen and he walked away
He had written down all that he wanted to say
His hands now were smudged from the marks on the wall
And he thought to himself, "In short time, it'll fall"

Right around the corner he was halted by the law
"You thought no one was watching, but guess what, kid? I saw.
The truth is, you're right, we vote for our wars
But the man up on top of the nation? He's yours."

The boy smiled slightly, for this cop was wrong
And he reached deep past the tears in himself to be strong
"That man isn't mine; he approved of this war
And congress has made my brother break the oath that he swore"

The cop looked at boy and the boy at the cop
They weren't talking graffiti, but the man up on top
Two strangers, two people, agreeing the fact
That the choice on the ballot was a serious act

"Most kids don't realize just what a vote can mean
They don't attribute the choice to the step in between
Old ideas corrupted or improved upon
All they know is their voice can make the other guy gone"

The boy nodded and looked the cop right in the eye
Saying, "This president let my brother ship out to die
If you try to make us think that his empathy wasn't fake
Contradiction in contrite diction will no conviction make

"You can't justify death because the harder you try
The more your arguments fade like the clouds in the sky
But before they dissolve and assimilate with the air
They leave behind pain to show that they were there"

The cop nodded, waved, and went back to the beat
More hoodlums and lost souls to help off the street
He passed a dark alley and his instincts erupted
His mind yelling to him, "Check for something corrupted!"

So he turned down in darkness to check out the spot
It looked like a place where blackmarket is hot
The fungus and mold that once grew peeled off
Leaving yellowish stains and the urge to cough

A voice near the brickwork called out saying, "Hey,"
"If it's not to much trouble, mister, couldja stay?
See honest to goodness, mister, I tried to stay clean
But when you take your own product, separation is mean"

"I don't know exactly who is to blame"
Said cop to the girl he could see but not name
"There's no one to blame," said the girl to the man
"There's things that will happen, and with time they all can

"For a creature that thrives on flesh alone
Will bite through the skin to steal the bone
And he must be careful, lest he find
That he's been feasting upon his own behind"

"Yes, sometimes it's true: Desire drives us too fast
Sometimes to places where sanity's long since passed
But sanity's fleeting and must be sought after
Come; let me find you some lodgings and laughter"

"No, mister! I'm a lost cause, my fate's without hope!
Permit me now to symbolize: I'm at the end of my rope!"
"Now miss don't you think like that, No one's soldered to their fate
Such thinking will confine you like a cage with bitter bait!"

This world's harsh and confusing and you've had the short stick
But don't let hopelessness be the only thing that's gonna make you tick
Like treading water in the ocean, panic makes you die
Find beauty out of terror, spread your arms and fly!"

The girl sat there blinking. She'd never heard such talk
She'd never been another thought on anybody's walk
"Now let me tell you, I'm not short on self doubt
But I've got to say: that's not what it's all about

See I met this boy earlier, who told me his story
About how the status of the world often makes him worry
This boy's actin' out, but he'll turn out just fine
But if you're giving up hope, then you're crossing the line

Because we've never needed Merry Men and Robin Hood
To stand up at bugle-call to turn the world good
We just need to remember: We're in it forever!
Fight the urge to look upward and shout angrily, 'Never!'

The world, good and bad, is mixed unto itself
And you can't take you your recipe book from the shelf
And add pinches of falsehoods like seasonings for a mask
You must fix it internally, for that is your task

See, though you've given up, that's something I just won't allow
You're gonna go out and fix it, let somebody show you how
Because there's more than one way to a proper conclusion
Some ways are hard and still others illusion

But become obsessed with the truth, with doin' things right
Become a shining green beacon to lead others at night
Promise me, here and now, in this alley proclaim!
That you will set forth and make good of your name."

The girl gently nodded and as time's hands were wound
She grew like a flower from that dank piece of ground
It's the tiny conversations that can so alter life
And cut the crust of complication like a peace-bringing knife

The boy with his brother who'd gone up in the fight
Was just like the cop said: he turned out alright
He put his mind to better things, gave up the childish art
And in the realm of history, his bio did its part

Because he realized how tangible the change he wanted was
He set aside resentments as the true reformer does
He spoke of love, acceptance. . . And then switched to compromise
Because when you're just a visionary, the vision always dies

He used the good and bad to weld a better, stronger, net
To catch the lost and lonely, his was the best support to get
He filled the heads of others with the change that he once viewed
And little inch by little inch corruption and violence met with feud

A verbal dispute filled with picketing people
Who shouted, "Change!" from their electronic steeple
And the media members had themselves a field day
As they caught on the camera what the boy had to say:

"Too often we forget, that apathy isn't peace
But we allow ourselves to be served it by the leaders filled with grease
And we skip along, ignoring things that should rightly upset us
Bombs abroad are wholly fine but not the one that's gonna get us

We've got to think of the whole picture, got to figure out the puzzle
Though you think the lion's fierce, it always has time to nuzzle
So let's switch the view and take on that trait
And put aside the thought that nuzzling can wait."

The cop saw the boy who was on T.V.
And said to himself, "that kid talked to me!
He smiled a bit, "his speech is pleasing as a wren
And in the case of my boasting, I'll say I knew him when!"

The girl wasn't taped, but she was out changing lives
By having conversations that we've likened to knives
And so it was when time was up on the impending revolution
Armed with words she voyaged forth to fufill her resolution

The boy and she stood side by side and led the people on
And using power words of choice, the old regime was gone
What started out as compromise, effloresced to peace and love
And the cop the two had talked to nodded at boy and girl above

A change in heart, a change in mind, can spark a worldly change
Though originality is difficult, ideas can rearrange
To fit the modern times, and indeed to mold it best
And the answer's sometimes difficult, but as we all know: life's a test

This boy and girl were lost, then found, and so was their whole world
And their string of conversations were around their finger curled
Reminding them that there was out there a better way to live
And revolution was the message that the cop had had to give
Nigel Thornberry Jun 2015
Two ducks diverged in a yellow pond,
And sorry I could not swim with both
And be one flamingo, on long legs I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent to underground blackmarket;
Then took the other, as just a carnival,
And having perhaps the better clam,
Because it was gassy and wanted to wear the newest trands (like those at your local hot topic);
Though as for that the passing out there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay with a stranger in your bed
In leaves no step had trodden black(not racist I swear).
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two ducks diverged in a pond, and I-
I took the one less swam by,
And that has made all the difference.
In my quest for world conquest.
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Melissa Rose Feb 2017
Consumer advertising
To politically advising
This world is overwhelming
I'll buy a do-over if you're selling?

Organic or GMO
Import vs locally grown
Is impeachment on the table?
Broken laws beat mentally unstable

Build a wall vs a helping hand
Acceptance vs Muslim bans
Deflate your country's dollar
vs an economic leader

Opinions vs Feelings
Healthcare system vs blackmarket dealings
Deregulation
All equal a crumbling nation

I don't typically spend my time
Getting lost in sludge & slime
With humanity at stake
Can't help but commiserate
2/10/17
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
it happens all the time, that feeling of reading a saturday newspaper supplement; had i mentioned that i find the journalistic medium of writing, the most obnoxious? the most tiresome, the most wearisome, the most, how should i say: *******? i don't which i detest more, the politicians, or the journalists... i never seem to ever pick the "right" choice... it's the politicians with their lies, but it's also the journalists with their social-media "attention" to detail that bugs me... who are these people, who are they?

and it only comes in the shape of an article
you're never too old. or are you?
who are these cardinals, bishops and monks
of the "writing" class fooling?
      i ****** well hope there's an inquisition
coming...
   i'm just tired of a culture that only celebrates
but *one
form of torture / execution...
crosses have become so unimaginative that
they had to become necklaces...
              yawn...
                     but these (cliche) bourgeoise opinions
are worse than torture...
         women: bare legs, provocative dancing,
zara, bouncy hair, selfies, macron age-gap bf,
getting drunk, hats (ascot esp.),
                    sheepskin car coats,
             slogan t-shirts;
men: hassling d.j.s, messy hair,
              trainers,
                                ear­rings,
     earphones, live gigs, the "mate",
                           flirting, visible *******...
who, are, these, people?
      i don't begin to think that a rebellion against
the bourgeoisie came from this sort
of laziness, this sort of "attention to detail",
but then again, hyacinth bucket could
annoy anyone with a stern armour of metal...
who are these people?
              i've just been watching clouds at night
with the hazel coated sheen of the moon
scuttering the intruding mountains of
quicksilver sheen cauliflower...
listening to some trafficking moral debate
while in amsterdam everyone partied...
and thinking: you know, i might have seen
my psychiatrist for free, a world renowned
(can't remember her name) -
    but i found that seeing a ******* to be
much more effective...
slave? was she a slave to me?
  frankly, more like a psychiatrist...
         after all, i'm no quasimodo in posture...
and yet the biggest idiot in our company would
get a ****, and i: supposedly the type
that got off on conversation...
   seems i was never dumb enough for a casual
****** encounter...
      pity? what pity, what self-wallowing
could i ever be up to? it's the perfectly sighted
comic affair...
               it's no conspiracy that the feminists
have become so undesirable they imported
a load of north african ****...
            what?!
            that's not the case, who else would ****
'em if not the ***** replacement machines
of nigra flesh? someone has to,
                   overwise everyone goes ballistic!
i already have to ladies by my side,
ms. amber, a scotch fiery red head,
  and sophia, a dark maiden from rhodes,
with curly hair...
                      and it's not so much what they
do with my nether regions, as what they do
with my ego... that other phallus...
                    it always aims at a north korean
army march... prompt, intact,
  with nicely ironed shirts, trousers and
other aspects of the uniform...
          then again, it was never a case of limp
when drunk and with the transcendental
experience passing the madonna-***** complex
with a *******...
     always that glorified one-dimensional
experience of corpus (ad) dare corpus...
            i have no qualms, no inhibitions,
you'd be surprised at the notion of un-inhibiting
certain receptors of quickened gratification,
walking into a room with about 12 of them,
staring at you like they might just circumcise you
with their lips, and eat your liver while
selling your kidneys on the blackmarket...
  and yes, i like my latin,
but latin as the cliche reminds us: is not dead...
latin is not dead, it's simply derived from
the vulgate,
     lingua latina est vivus, in plebei, ergo
   est non mort
; and that's the usual ****-it you
apply to reviving the origins of:
               still writing in a latin alphabet!
         if latin was dead, i'd be writing in runic!
dead my ***... ever seen a baboon with
haemorrhoids try to sit still?
           had about four ****-cheeks on him,
****** decided to hang upside-down from
a tree... and no, two weeks in kenya were not great,
i don't know how those whiteys did it,
i spent most of the time in a shade,
  4 hours in an air conditioned room,
          3 hours prior to falling asleep on the balcony,
and probably drank my bodyweight of liquids...
so yes, i have a "moral" conundrum regarding
prostitution, esp. after visiting amsterdam...
**** me, beats sessions with a psychiatrist...
my mental illness? christianity,
  and how i found it hard to mantra mea culpa
+ quia propitius ero iniquitatibus eorum et
       peccatorum illorum iam non memorabo
...
which is a staggering combination
  of... "symptoms".

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