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Yenson Jul 2021
At GMT zero zero Twenty God-knows-when
the Lemmings' News announced they have all the facts
there sits Chief Broadcaster, Ms Lemmings Red
the renowned purveyor of loony news
the wonkier, the more far-fetched the better
the red light is on, we are live on Air
and so they roll
the messages and news for lemmings by lemmings

Now some one pray do tell me in earnest fare
cause for a pretty second I truly did ponder their ongoing scope
but finding it quite meaningless ignored henceforth
for what merry business is it to me
the love life or romantic dalliances of a stranger
what interest me if six seven or ten swing with Eros
or petals meet petals in gardens or roof tops
for certain I know this got nowt to do with me

Tell no lies the lemmings do what lemmings do
and Chief Broadcaster Ms Lemmings Red and their station
with no ethics, ethos or integrity follow their lemmings agenda
for fellow lemmings dare not think or challenge the zany news
the world is burning, a pandemic is raving and partying
schools shutting creating a better class of half-wits for morrows
yet lemmings expect me to be concerned about the love life of who
if strangers risk their health hopping and what's not
isn't that their business, what's it to do with me
Lemmings living lusciously in tiny boxes all the same – splashes of color
the whirring buzz of a paved path lures them like fish to their shiny frames
drab claims to a cube – clickty clack,
guffaw guffaw goes the lemming in cube 102
cube 104 pounds and releases, click click click, whirring slides overwhelm the brain of the lemming.
Beep beep beep,
ring ring ring,
millions of delicate digital lemmings walking off cliffs
plummeting to their pasteurized expiration
glued to more tiny shiny brightly lit boxes wanting verbosity and novelty
superficial thoughts grasp until every little living lemming wanders into the last chest,
the box made of satin, and silk, hammered shut and dropped into a rectangle mounded with dirt.
What comes next – nothing but more lemmings living in smaller boxes to their expiration dates
Yenson Jul 2018
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes

another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see

for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes

for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils

As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does



Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed

Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee

eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes

come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee

This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs



Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam

Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex

but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes

perchance unlike you common goons,  she knows distinction has no comparison to thee

Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms



Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee

so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches

we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas

in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah

for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes



Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we

lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches

indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea

and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies

It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence


Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
This is based on the experience of some one victimized by a contemporary Left-wing Group for daring to criticize their views and believing in aspiration. This poor fellow has been hounded all over London, lost his job, isolated by smears and outrageous lies now broke and on the verge of suicide,, all because he aired his own stance against socialism. The Reds are forsaken bullies, I dare say this. In the old Soviet States dissidents are subjected to a program called Slow death, where they are discredited, harassed, hounded, mobbed everywhere, isolated, they are smeared, character assassinated and persecuted. they are unfairly dismissed from jobs, denied basic Human rights and some are framed and institutionalized and declared insane, in essence their whole lives are summarily destroyed and most end up committing suicide. I regret to tell you that this happens to some in this great Nation too. Pls research Criminal Gang-stalking, Cause Stalking and Community Vigilantes online.
John Marsh  Nov 2011
Lemmings
John Marsh Nov 2011
What does a lemming have but deep love
Among his lemming clan? And how
Happy they are, falling from above
Right next to their family and friends
They run and they jump
In one big fat clump
Falling to their scary, watery death
Not a fun plunge, but perhaps we can learn
To love like lemmings
Until we have nothing left
Waverly Mar 2012
When he was seventeen years old,
your protagonist
asked his father
a question about heartbreak, his own perhaps.

The father
answered:
"Why would she love you?
I can see why?
You're acting like a *****?"

Each line a question,
demanding an answer.

Answers your protagonist
did not have.

So your protagonist
ventured out into the
world,
and became a rambler.

Rambling off nonsense
with the rapidity
of lemming chatter.

He became
the great Rambler,
mumbling about
love,
until even his dreams
became ****** up streams
of language.

He caromed off cliffs of reality
bumping against those barriers
of his fatherland
until he was hurtling
into the rambling ocean
to drown
unconsciously.
blindly the lemmings did follow
questioning their leader not
for his word alone they'd swallow
none awake to the piper's plot

questioning their leader not
he'd corralled them with nonsense*
none awake to the piper's plot
they'd be downed at his expense

he'd corralled them with nonsense
a Jim Jones kind of dingbat
they'd be downed at his expense
as he called in a weird ****

a Jim Jones kind of dingbat
proffering the edge's cliff-face
as he called in a weird ****
all drowned pursuing his trace

proffering the edge's cliff-face
the testament of a madman
all drowning pursuing his trace
their eyes were closed like a fan

the testament of a madman
none awake to the piper's plot
their eyes were closed like a fan
*questioning their leader not
Zemyachis Oct 2012
by Ashley Capps

Ophelia, when she died,
lay in the water like the river’s bride, all pale
and stark and beautiful against the somber rocks,
her hair an endless golden ceremony.
She made the water sing for her; it flowed
over her folded arms.

Not so my father’s sister Karen,
swollen in a day-old tub of water
when they found her,
needle tucked into the fold of her arm,
her last thing: a wing.

So everything went as nameless as the men
who lifted her naked from the tub,
or those who rolled her
into the mouth of the furnace,
which is what you get
when you don’t get a service,
when your mother’s years of grief turn
last to rage: I won’t pay for it.
Leave me out of it.

And even though they finally said
it wasn’t suicide; a mistake—
no one knew what to do
with all of that anger,
or in the end how not to blame her.

Even now, in her unmarked container.

*


People once believed a deeper reason, some dark secret
motivation to the way the lemmings threw themselves
en masse into the sea. Were they weary
of their lives; could they, too, despair?
Or like those second-vessel swine
when Jesus exorcised two babbling men of their demons,
driving the demons through a pack of bewildered hogs—
the way they plunged?

The truth we know now: they leave when food is scarce,
when they’ve grown too many;
believe the roads they follow
lead to new meadows, a place to start over.

I think of Karen, feeding
and feeding her veins, how it is possible
she saw us all suddenly there—miraculous
and festive on some bright and other shore,
like the life she had been swimming toward
all along, trying to get right.
Like those sailors long ago,
that tropical disease, calenture—
when, far from everything they knew,
men grew sometimes delirious
and mistook the waving sea for green fields.
Rejoicing, they leapt overboard,
and so were lost forever,
even though they thought it was real, though
they thought they were going home.

—by Ashley Capps
If you know why
salmon swim upstream
in a suicidal attempt to
get back to their beginnings
and why lemmings head
en masse for the sea
and why drones who
service the queen bee
inevitably die,
then tell me why
I who should follow
their lead hold back?
Am I afraid to find
that the pain of leaving
might be less than the
pain of staying behind?
Is this what salmon, lemmings
and drones all know?
And so they willingly go?

— The End —