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The man to my right was more than eight feet away. I was going to have to move closer to him to catch my limit of four trout. I halved the distance between the two of us and noted the sideways glance he shot me. I apologized immediately and asked if I was crowding him.
     “No, you fine,” he replied within a thick Serbian accent.
     “You’re with them?” I asked, pointing to the crowd of people on the bridge some 30 feet upstream from us. I had heard the crowd of eastern Europeans talking earlier, and their accents were unmistakable to me. He nodded and we continued fishing.
     With my new angle I was better able to pick my fish in the water, so that’s what I did. I spied one and tossed my jig toward him. It took five casts but eventually, he took the bait. As I netted it in the swift, ice-cold spring water the man beside me congratulated me on the catch. I thanked him and added it to my stringer. This made three, and I only needed one more.
     “What’s your name?” I asked him.
     “Ivan”.
     “Have you been in the states long?” I asked, after the pause following his short reply seemed to invite more questions.
     “Since ‘96, my family live here. It is good.”
     “You like living here?” I wondered aloud.
     “Yes, the fishing is good. It is like back home in Serbia, or in Germany. We have this fishing there.”
     “You mean trout?”
     “Yes, trout...and some other fish like these, in water like this, but I can’t go home now.” He looked away momentarily. His lips pursed, and his brow furrowed. I pulled my line in, wanting to ask him more and not wanting to be distracted.
     “Were you in the war?”
     “Yes, I was in the Serbian police force.” My heart pounded. “When I was in the Serbian police force, we did what you see on the news. We went into villages and we killed them. We killed them all.”
     I cast my line back into the water, spying another trout. Ivan shrugged and cast his own line. I couldn’t tell what he was using but it looked like cheese of some kind. “I was drafted in Serb police when I was 15. I had no choice. If I refuse, they **** me. I did what I had to do.” I nodded, and ****** my line, missing a fish. “Before the war, I fished. After the war, there were not so many people, so fishing was very good.”
     The air around me was alive. The trees were greener, the water was colder and clearer, the sun was brighter, and the sky was bluer.
     “I’ve been fishing for a long time as well,” I responded. My father used to bring me here as a child. He nodded and continued.
     “After the war, all the fish come back, no one fished during the war, so there were many of them. You just had to be careful of the mines.” He grunted and gazed skyward.
     “The mines?”
     “Yes, during the war they mined the water.”
     I watched trout number four take my jig and I carefully reeled him in. Ivan congratulated me a second time, and I thanked him in return.
“You’re a good fisherman,” he said turning back to his own pursuit of the four-trout limit, as I left the water to clean my catch.
All imperial, resource-based wars are bad wars. There are not good and bad actors, only competing wealthy interests.
He lay there in a *****, unkept ball,
Having surrendered to the pavement.
Wisps of stringy brown hair
Covered the lines on his sunken in face,
His yellow smoked eyes, rheumy and blurred,
His vision hazy, like a punch-drunk boxer.

Kathleen Harmon sashayed by
With nary a glace downward.
Once they were equals,
When they sat together
During high school Chemistry.

Time slowed from a Tango to a Waltz,
As a drop of saliva
Kissed the pavement.
Stringing there from his cracked, parted lips.

His tangled brown whiskers,
Patchy on his cheeks,
Had lengthened with the passing days
Since their last meeting with a razor.

Nikes, Prada, and Gucci
Ignore him in passing
All sports, fashion, and business meetings;
On the clock, and self-absorbed.

Dusk marked the sky
With a violet crayon
Worn to a nub,
Then worn to nothing.

A sudden thud startled him awake!
Then blackened hardwood stunned him as it bit into his ribs!
A caustic voice berated his slumber,
A navy blue reminder that even surrender was no escape.
The world and its arbitrary hierarchy *****.
So there we were on the cliff above the railroad tracks, the Missouri River Bridge in the distance. We’d armed ourselves with sticks, rocks, and pellet guns. We were a ragtag militia, all fight and no war.

The roar of the oncoming train drowned out our planning for anarchy and unfocused mayhem.
The five of us waited, unsure how to take best advantage of the rolling brown and yellow Union Pacific. Dan looked at me and wiped the sweat from his face with his *** Pistols t-shirt.

“Let’***** it!” Rob said. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t say no. If I said it was wrong they’d have laughed and done it anyway. Tingles ran down my legs. I leaned against a nearby cedar and craned my head in the direction of the oncoming train. From our vantage point on the bluff amongst the trees, the unwary conductor would never see us. I waved to signal the others as it arrived.

The ground shook as the train roared below us. Deaf from its passing, we used hand signals like the guys in Red Dawn. That’s it! That’s who we were! We were the Wolverines! And I was the scout who had just spotted a resupply train that was carrying logistical necessities like...

“Cars! *******! This one has cars on it,” Kevin yelled. The other soldiers all gathered rocks and threw them at the passing supply train. I yelled “Wolverines!” as they pelted the evil communist convoy. The four of them joined me screaming the same. My blood boiled, and my face went hot as I embraced the guerilla tactics.

I was dumbfounded when Rob picked up a boulder... and lifted it over his head like a weightlifter. As it flew through the air in deliciously slow motion I thought for sure it was just going to drop straight down the face of the crumbling bluff. Then, with accuracy too precise to have been planned, the boulder crashed through the front windshield of some red Ford, and due to the speed of the passing train, blew through the back glass before tumbling to rest on the hood of some blue Chevy below it.

Dead Flippin Silence

“Rob! *******! That was awesome!” someone said...Tim, I think.

Rob stood with fists pumping in the air. He won today, and he became the captain of our squad. I picked up a much smaller rock and threw it, watching as it clanged helplessly off the train’s metal siding. The Russians would surely come looking for us now, and this was a hit and run raid. We bolted from our perches and sought other opportunities to hit the Commies where it hurt!

We really wanted to be Anarchy!
Circa 1989. Watch the old Red Dawn and pretend you're too young to know better. (Also that it hasn't aged poorly). Also, listen to the *** Pistols. If you can't... It's on you. :)
Arkapravo Aug 9
A poem weaves lyrics to thoughts,
the fortune that destiny brought,
the wind that the words caught,
... just enough, never a lot !

It is when, the flowers shout out,
... the birds sing aloud,
bees buzz together in a clout,
hooray to the dancing village lout.

Or, if it is the charm of a maiden's eyes,
hold my hand and tell me a lie,
as truth will only make me cry,
give me a promise, till I die.

Or, if it is for a social reason,
an anarchist on revolt season,
a dab of red, a call of treason,
a poets verse can take to prison.

Or, if words seeks the minds-speak,
psyche is for the daring, not the meek,
... a work at hand, not a walk past the creek,
can you read my thoughts at a poet's streak?

Or, if it is for war protest,
in Guy Fawke mask and a black vest,
for the plight of those in peace who rest,
catchy solgans and a chorus to test.

... then there is the drunk babble,
verses on a high, writing for a fable,
realm of the bar's loony rebel,
few moments just too incredible.

Few who talk of life ...
... and the universe, past time's swipe
thoughts never too naive,
a philosopher's table to wipe!

A poem will always try,
to make verses not too dry,
a worth of truth laced with a pinch of lie,
a flutter for the heart to fly.
Anastasia Jun 19
...........~................--...............~...................­....-...............-................
                  dis C ord
                        H ell
                   an A rchy
              turm O il
             lawle S s
my favorite word
Anastasia Jun 6
her soul was the flavor of anarchy
and he knew he wanted a taste
silver roses and bloodred flame
to win her heart was a lovely game
he kissed her in the rain
and she touched him without shame
he wanted her heart
but only got pain
she played around
with the strings of his heart
but she sometimes feared
she would tear them apart
a flicker
or flame
a bite
and a taste
of her
anarchy
soul.
i've had the words "anarchy soul" in my head for a while, so i decided to make a poem. have a lovely day <3
Asher May 21
Laid down, the only answer that can be given.
Clearer light, separate and distinct, from the same fountain.
Ambition, to counteract ambition.
Human nature, to reflect on human nature.
Angels were to control itself.

Divide and fortify. Natural defense, safety. Absolute negative connection between this weaker and the weaker.
All the power surrendered.
Evil will render This, turned against, broken into.
Justice is the end, pursued until it be obtained, or lost in the pursuit.
Unite and oppress, anarchy to rein as a state of nature,
not secured against the violence.
modus operandi. i was told this piece seemed very Feral
A Simillacrum Apr 17
No one
worth your time
will give a ****,
honey.

No one
worth your love
will give a fight,
baby.

Learn your personality.
Learn humility.
Work on the flaws.
Defend your deepened heart.

No one
worth your time
will give a ****,
lovey.

No one
worth your art
will give a fight,
child.

Deep and directed,
do. Those deep
in the win or the lose
will see you
taking a tragic loss,
but you'll know.

And that's enough!

Oh my good ness
he/she, how ee gonna be?
God Almighty, shot
me, now I fall like lightning.
The mass effect
best keep you ***** earth low --
so make them fail:
haul all of your mines tow.
Anyone want a piece of this?
The more you *****,
the more I'll **** --
Home court, that's how it goes,
but on my court
you switch your roles.
Is the first base defense
another defensive pretense?

Duh.
She adorns her face with platinum
piercings, and her azure hair peeks
out of her indigo hoodie. Her
ragged, cinereous jeans reveal
scabbed and bruised knees, and
they’re tucked into jet black
biker boots strapped to her feet.

Without hesitation, she crosses the street.

Tires screech and car horns beep and drivers
scream obscenities that ornament the air
with scorn. Yet like a red belonging in folklore,
she slights their violent contempt.

She tipples from the burn of
self-destruction, and savors the
flavor of rebellion, a savor so
sweet it overwhelms her senses
and compels her to behave reckless.

And as I pass, I throw up my best fist
of anarchy. I wish I was free like this.

Though it takes a tinge of toughness
to stare into the nihilistic abyss,
it takes courage to have fun in it.


-
Aleksander Mielnikow
True story!


red [noun] - one who advocates the violent overthrow of an existing social or political order

tipples [verb] - to drink liquor especially by habit or to excess, OR, to drink (liquor) especially continuously in small amounts

burn [noun] - a channel of water that can vary in size from a stream to a river


azure - #007fff
indigo - #4b0082
cinereous - #98817b


If you liked this, check out "Dancing Alone" and "Tonight's The Night"
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