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mark Aug 21
morning dove
or is it the mourning dove?
speaks this morning
of melancholy
rock and sheep
and a drunken friend
who each night
ended his day
the same

each minute
was nothing I knew
it was the sound of the bells,
around their necks
and from the church.
Above in the abandoned castle,
defenses down
in rooms
open to the sky
looking down
on the village life
the smell of the beach
fish and retsina
the wisteria sheltered agora

I came there
like the gypsies
we never saw
who snuck in at night
took our clothing
off the lines
and potted plants
from the patio,
leaving only what was missing
as evidence
they'd been there
Carve out the disparity
it’s only words on a page,
a screen lost to history
the death of complexity.
Magnetised contortion
finds sickness in perpetuity
binding the blind to colourless reality
tearing through the rhythm of my suspended animation.
Behind the punchline to every joke
the cloud of malcontent
a bitter rapture
sweeping away the ground where we were supposed to kneel
isn’t that how we were supposed to feel?
Holly M Feb 19
the tune had been haunting
london for weeks past,
but when the lights went out,
they went out fast.

none of us thought
those days would end.
the music would always be there
anytime we needed a friend.

the sweetness of the soprano;
sprinkled over a sultry saxophone;
the steady heartbeat of an upright bass;
titillating trumpets tooting a tune.

the raven-haired lady: the envy of the room;
the men could only dream
of being so lucky.
the ladies could only scream,
hoping to catch the tall dark stranger's eye.
at the end of the night,
we all sang a whiskey lullaby.

but the wind blew cold-
it made us shiver.
the band packed up their magic.
the soprano ran off with the tall dark stranger.
all alone and without home,
the raven-haired lady blew her mind out,
nowhere left to roam.

nights became weeks and weeks became months.
our throats were perpetually plugged with lumps.
it's hard to say how meaningful it can be-
the touch something can have,
no matter how seemingly arbitrary-
until it is gone with the wind.
When it's 1984 and your life's a bore
in Maggie's vision of a soulless, selfish Britannia, you do what any self disrespecting angst ridden 17 year old college drop out would do;
you brew home brew from hops and yeast and bits of twigs and dregs of evil smelling unidentified liquid; slosh it in glass bottles with a skull and cross bones then wait, wait and wait to celebrate its maturity with a ticket to the Castle Donington Monsters of Rock Pissfest!

Armed with the festering fruits of my labour in the company of bedenimed festering friends with metal heads and Patchouli oil scents to mask any basic deficiencies of hygiene, it's off to the Middle East....Midlands.

Against the incongruous backdrop of striking miners, record unemployment and my own fortnight giro, the garish Motley Crue were ready to rock my *** down Sunset *****. Yeh baby!!! so relatable with my decadent rock n roll lifestyle in the grim, rain soaked East Manchester dole queues of hopelessness where my coke dealer was Derek with the cola variety.

On to a bone jarring jalopy to get off my **** on the home made grog off "how to do home brew" instructions, now suitably refreshed on a rare English sun baked afternoon and ready to join the throng to view the 'Crue's man thongs over red leather pants so regularly seen in the vaults of inner city Mancunian pubs. My *** robustly rocked then ready to be kicked by our favourite batman..."LETS GET NUTS! IT'S OZZZZY OSBOURNE!!!" ARE YOU READY TO RIDE THE F** CRAZY TRAIN! LET'S GO!

Losing all 5 of my senses I climbed aboard a cohort's shoulders around which hundreds of ***** filled receptacles whizzed and fizzed, caring not a jot as Ozzy implored me to raise my hands and worship at the altar of rock n roll, man...but my worship was interrupted by a direct plastic **** hit to the back of my cranium, exploding its contents into my rarely washed mullet and drenching my Rainbow Rising t-shirt.

What was I to do?

Nothing, baby!

This is rock n roll!
I boarded the Dave Lee Roth fronted Van Halen express and saluted those about to rock AC/DC and...
More recently I'm veering off the page towards the stage, This may work?
You will not
Cut out my tongue
Until you bury my corpse.

I shall be,
And speak, in freedom,
And shall owe no explanation.

If it comes
To strength and iron,
I'll fall like my ancestors,

Dying in the name of what's right.
Governments across the world are adopting a fascistic view of personal freedoms. It seems as though they wish to police thoughts and opinions. Do not let them. Oppose a regime that tramples your right to be as you are: at that point, it is no longer worthy of your suboordination.
Charlotte Dec 2017
In English,
we’re learning about
Winston and Julia
in 1984, but
it’s 2017
all I want to study is

I want to study less
about the
control and freedom
Big Brother has
and more about
the calculation of your

I want to study the way
your knuckles could be an
infant’s home, small
hands reaching out
longing for you
or the way the veins in
your arm makes abstract art,
beautiful enough to be showcased
in any gallery.

I understand now why they say
“as pretty as a painting.” Because
you’re as timeless and
breathtaking as
Mona Lisa.

And your blue iris's,
swirl with dark and light
tones with a slight
a golden glint,
I could stare into them for longer
than any
Starry Night.

I’m just better suited to an art class.
I want to learn the primaries
so I can swirl them all together and
get your dark brown hair.
I want to add the most expensive
white, so I can paint the
faint freckles on your nose and

I want to mix blue and red adding water
until the colour is a perfect match
for the faintest birthmark
on your shoulder.

Instead of the History of Russia,
I want to learn the History
of you.
I want to learn what makes you smile
and what makes you cry.

I want to study you,  
I use each brush ****** to
perfect your skin,
each pen writes down
notes until
I have a whole book
full of each heartbreak,
so I can learn a lesson
in you.
Vexren4000 Dec 2017
Everyone hold their phone,
Being tracked by coporate,
And big brother,
Giving Facebook their information willingly,
One day,
Heed my words,
You will no longer like,
Your phone.

Adele Nov 2017
I can hear them. There is not one, but might be hundreds of them lurking behind these rickety wood walls.

He is watching. The party has always been watching. I can control my thoughts. Cogito ergo sum. This is my world, no one can touch me. These are my thoughts, my heart beats for what is good for me. My hands scrawling, my brain is just scribbling.

Yet, I’ve known from the start that I am a dead man.

I didn’t commit adultery, I followed them. I am alive, I can feel my heart racing. My blood all over my body... reminds me why I’m here. To survive and live, yet I am still a dead man.

I am no mute, but I can’t speak. While writing this I can picture my hands and feet with shackles, wounds of torture. I’ve been always a dead man.

The prole doesn’t know. They need to know. They should stop listening or watching the telescreen. They should strive to dig the Oldspeak.

Oh, right. Who dares to doublethink against a totalitarian regime anyway?

The guns are always on their hands. The war is always going. It’s always here. The past... is always here. We don’t see it, but it’s here! There’s nowhere to run or hide, the world tried.

I will be the next unperson, vaporising in the history of Oceania. They won’t remember. They’ll try not to remember. We are a nobody. Winston was right. I can feel the boot stamping on my face. This is the future.

My voice... is a thought crime, will never be accepted in this society.

I am a dead man.

I am ready... the Thought Police has been always watching me. The INGSOC. Big Brother. I will never love him!

But I am ready to be trap in the place where there is no darkness. I am ready... for the Ministry of Love.

I won’t ever, ever love Big Brother!

I do not care, for I am already a dead man!

• Big Brother- the face of the Party, the leader behind the great power. The best part is that we never come to confirm his actual existence. He might not even be real. Maybe the Party just hired an intimidating-looking male model to make those posters. The face of the Party, Big Brother acts as reassurance and a trustworthy entity for many (his name is warm and fuzzywarm and fuzzy and easy to embrace). Yet, he is also your biggest enemy and threat – if you are one of the criminals (he is watching your every move).

• Cogito ergo sum- Renee Descartes, the famous philosopher, used that to prove his own existence. It literally means, "I think; therefore, I am." He claimed that his ability to form thoughts made him a real, living, human being.

• Doublethink- the acceptance of two contradictory ideas or beliefs at the same time.

• INGSOC- "Ingsoc" means "English Socialism." The "Ing-" is based on the pronunciation of "English" and "-soc" on "socialism."

• Oceania - The super state in which protagonist Winston Smith dwells. It is believed to be composed of the Americas, the British Isles (called "Airstrip One" in the novel), Iceland, Australia, New Zealand, Polynesia, and Southern Africa below the River Congo.

• Ministry of Love- The Ministry of Love (or Miniluv in Newspeak) serves as Oceania's interior ministry. It enforces loyalty to Big Brother through fear, buttressed through a massive apparatus of security and repression, as well as systematic brainwashing

• Oldspeak- normal English usage as opposed to technical or propagandist language

• Prole- a shortening of the word proletarian, a term for the working class.

• Telescreen- a wall-mounted electronic device that doubles as a television and a surveillance camera. Used by the Thought Police to monitor the citizens.

• Thoughtcrime- even more serious offense than committing an actual crime: It's the act of thinking about committing a crime. You have thoughts that conflict with the Party line, like thinking "Big Brother is ungood.”

• Thought Police- a group of people with totalitarian views on a given subject, who constantly monitor others for any deviation from prescribed thinking

• Unperson- someone who has been vaporized. Vaporization is when a person is secretly murdered and erased from society, the present, the universe, and existence. Such a person would be taken out of books, photographs, and articles so that no trace of them is found in the present anywhere – no record of them would be found.

• Winston Smith- a fictional character and the protagonist of George Orwell's 1949 novel Nineteen Eighty-Four.


(a life-changing recommended read)
Svode Oct 2017
Save me from this government,
which envelops the land.
Which doesn't give me freedom,
or help my weary hand.

I'm saved in Oceania,
which is doublegood; much nonwasted land.
BB unstruggles workers,
BB helps unwear hands.
A group of friends and I wanted to know how a short poem might be impacted by being translated into Newspeak from 1984. This was mostly for fun
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