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Emanuel Martinez Mar 2013
If (WO)men are the ones that suffer an exacerbated amount
Of the violence, the ****, the abuse, and everything that comes
with and from struggle and alienation;
it is because of their femininity that men at times
have come to believe that their contributions soften institutions.
That at times throughout history neither capitalism, neoliberalism nor revolutionary experiments like that of Cuba have placed femininity as compatible
with progress or resolution.
In which case femininity must be hidden, silenced, or displaced with no purpose or place to belong.

Thus everyone closely associated with this femininity such as homosexuals, transgendered (WO)men, and "effeminate" males, (ignoring, subverting and negating the lesbian identity because of their gender) have come to be marginalized by a structural system of exclusion.

(WO)men carrying the highest burden for originating the associative distinction

Homosexuals battling to find love by constantly having to assert their masculinity

Transgendered (Wo)men afraid of expressing their through identity.

Lesbians fighting to legitimize their own identity separate from the directives ascribed onto them by virtue of being born women.

Males who are labeled effeminate because of their sympathy toward those who struggle and are alienated.

And every other individual who refuses to deliver to give a marker to their identity and a degree to their femininity.

Hold fast in your femininity and embrace the rancor that society grants you
As a homosexual I speak with you brother and sister, not for you

Realize that our self-ascribed degrees of femininity and identity are as revolutionary and transformative, and thus necessary, as those of Che Guevara, Mohammed Ali, Harriet Tubman, or the Dali Lama.

That because we have decided to embrace our degrees of femininity, problematic to any movement, at one point or another, we have inadvertently decided to align our selves with those who are alienated the most by the systems in which they live.

So that in this way we must make our struggles deliberate and political. Let our degrees of femininity become legitimizing banners of solidarity for anyone who suffers in any corner of the world.
March 10, 2013
Pearson Bolt Jan 2017
in school they told me to keep politics and cursing
out of my poetry. from elementary education
to post-graduate work at the university,
no one really cared to teach me how to write.
certainly not the pretentious prats
who'd somehow forgotten
our words are swords
in the flesh of the State.

they told us flowery metaphors
were welcome, but critiques of the systems
that would eradicate flowers from planet earth
were choked by the weeds
of existential philosophies,
too much
for the average reader
to comprehend.

i was taught to keep polysyllabic words like "neoliberalism,"
and "corporatocracy"
out of rhythmic verse
because the bourgeoise
want to read something ****.

witness the revolt of the proletariat.
i'm embracing a literacy
anointed in Angela y Davis's legacy,
"i am changing the things i cannot accept."
i'll fight like hell and bleed
the imagery from every stanza
if that's what it takes to show
that all art is always already resistance.

to be an anarchist
in the twenty-first century
is to refute practically every vestige
of contemporary society.
to embrace paradoxes and be skeptical,
practicing critique, an endeavor
Foucault termed "reflective indocility."
liberty and equity in equal measures,
an individual amidst a community.
hopeless, but still fighting.

the answer to the ills afflicting us
are available if we avail ourselves
immediately, parting ways
like divorcees,
finally severing all ties
with this American sham
of false democracy.

the answer is neither on the left
nor the right. we've peeked behind the scenes
and seen the corporate-state is held
on a short leash by the oligarchy,
bound and gagged, nothing but a plaything
satisfying the master-slave binary.

if we're to triumph over the bigotry
rising like seas bloodied by refugees
fleeing the endless wars the U.S. has instigated,
we'll have to get creative again.
dare to dream utopically, living
as if we're already free,
seeking liberty, equality, and solidarity.

so consider this a manifesto of sorts:
until i go to greet death as an old friend,
happily released from daily suffering,
i'll sit at my typewriter and bleed
for the least of these,
then climb to my feet and fight
to take back the ******* streets.
The Jolteon Jan 2017
Since the 80s
Any parties for working people
Have virtually disappeared
The most well known
Took a hard right turn
Now pro-war, deregulation
Slashing social services
Criminalizing youth of color
While the Republicans
Went further and further right

Now we have two conservative parties
The center right big D Democrats
And the far right Republicans
A vote for Trump
Was a vote for facism
A vote for Hillary
Was a vote for neoliberalism
There were more than four candidates
Did you know?

This is also known
As the one party system
More dems voted repub
Than other way around
******* DNC
******* RNC
The snakes are all on the same plane
Pearson Bolt  Jun 2019
Pearson Bolt Jun 2019
i wish i could put my fist
through this wretched city,
march straight down Monroe
to the capitol building—
that flaccid, *******, hideous tower
looming like the tomb of god
over Tallahassee.

this bastion of neoliberalism
sits in the heart of a red state.
escalating rent and gentrification
go hand-in-hand on occupied Muskogee lands.
statues commemorating genocidal colonizers
defended by neo-Confederate bootlickers
keep watch over Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd.
everywhere you look in this college town
you’ll find indigeneity reduced to a mascot.

so let’s introduce a little anarchy.
we’ll clash with riot cops
armed with tire-irons and Molotovs.
occupy the academy, transform the cafeteria
into a people’s kitchen. teach freely
on Landis Green. come, dance
with abandon and reclaim these tired streets
from those beset on our alienation.
Behind the Façade

Behind the Holyday Inn near the bus station used by
we the masses and immigrants, there are streets of houses
kept in the gloomy mode of semi-poverty and cheap wine.
I walked these streets windows shuttered, here and there
a small grocery shop run by Asians how they make a living
Is a wonder, cafes too I saw nearly went into one but it
looked so filthy I changed my mind, but did buy a can of
coke in the Asian's shop
We had been to the giant old hospital call -Ca Curry- and it
was old and decrepit, yet doctors and nurses struggle on
no money is spent on National Health now that we are in
the grip of neoliberalism.
She has bad hips and the wait for our bus was three hours
hence my excursion into the streets of boredom a part of
Lisbon no tourist would wish to see, no anyone famous had
lived here and “Fado” was flaking walls and peeling doors.
Back at the bus station I found in a corner a second-hand
book shop bought a book of a prose poetry and got one for
free, I sat beside her, tried to read  Portuguese and thought
it takes an Indian person to try selling poetry in Iberia.
Yenson Apr 2019
Going backwards to forward
singing heard from silent music bland
a symphony written by frustrated orchestras
song sheets for the blind with notes set in invisible fonts
by the voice from the cave for civilized beggars in alms houses
to soothe broken minds and malignant bodies
elixir to  impaired ghosts afraid of ghosts
bed-time fables of sans heroic cowards
designer putty ***** lots seasoned
the osmosis of feral ignorance
juvenile anti Neoliberalism
on Jarrow marches we are
the old money killers
punch drunk, saps
agitators, thugs
today's jokers
cannot see
the joke
is You
JP Goss Sep 2019
If neoliberalism has taught me anything
It’s that Love is a close, slow, and cold war
Of poisoned wells, proxy wars, and intel—
Know thy enemy, keep them closer than allies.
So close this necessary rivalry
That no olive branch can pass between
That, even in times of peace,
The light-bearing serpents
Post guard near the vaults of one’s purity
Unsure whether grain or gold
Actually lines the walls of ones coffers,
And the thousand envious myrmidons
Kept along the edges of their body’s territory
And skirt the embassy within.
Is there room in the hearth
For pacifists like me?
Or are all the rooms quartered by troops?
It’s sad to say, only the words of the cynic
Could truck and barter
Their way through the bronze gates,
What small inlets there may be,
As master seeking the slave
And slave, the master’s whips
Is a true sign of loyalty to Monogamy’s crown.
What Love couldn’t be said to be
The sadomasochism of
The corporate merger,
Or annexation
Or competitive market of ideas?
***, in the time of Smith or Hobbes,
Is exactly what we need—
Egoism allwheres,
Like so much embroidery
The love of ones life
Veils *******, a swallowing, a utility
And undoes the altruism,
Anything but all-true-ism,
In favor of the fetishism of control,
Flashed like semaphores in storm-beaten nights
To any ship passing
Seeking port and safe passage,
Exchange fire, those shapes and pleas,
Turned warnings to threats,
Sinking, sinking deeper
Into each other’s arms.
In all their plotting, do they hear
Andres-Salome, Ree, and Nietzsche
Laughing about in unburdened skin
Laughing to let the summer in,
On cart-drawn pleasures
And rustic, old-world habits
That rub dirt in the wound
Of the flesh’s censures
By the cruel absence of the lash
And the ostracon.

— The End —