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You're really pretty strange.
The way others speak of you.
Without ever really knowing you,
Or having spent time in your presence.
Often they talk at you,
then listen to you speak.
But seem to hear words
different from the
ones you spoke.

Strange, quite strange.
Though, it seems to work well for you.
Whatever you take or say.
whoever you bruise;
metaphorically or literally.
Is transformed then by some act
of inner god, to acts which
sanctify the passion that
you inspire.
That passion which sparks bonds,
matrimony and procreation.

And yet it seems, as songs
has often said, you really are forever.
Even if you are not with
them forever.
Katie Katie Jun 2016
A new species still being studied-

They have a compulsive obsession with mutilating their bodies
They yank out hairs in the place on their face made for expression
Daily they scrape off natural hairs from their limbs
And from under them, considering the act as simple hygiene practice

Some will even lay in a chamber of radiation to cook skin browner
And smear a smelly cream to make the skin look slimy shiny and '****'
They scorch their head hair to change the texture for a day
And they draw on their faces with crayons made from wax and oils

They prioritize displaying of the body shape over movement
With their tight denim body coverings and waist clinchers
They wear coverings of their feet with a stick replacing the heel
To look physically attractive, despite the injuries and lesions

They're expected to keep a casing over their chest tissues in public
They hide their pheromones with alcohol and fake smell of plants
They keep private and hidden that they perform excretory acts
And they're never content with the meat casing they're trapped inside

Only (almost) satisfied looking at their reflection and seeing a lie
Julie Grenness May 2016
Here in poets' glory, we bask....
Not long ago, a bard did ask,
"When did poetry become ethnography?"
Verse is part of human anthropology,
Even part of Christianity,
Millions of people read the psalms,
Millions of folk read their Koran,
As part of their faith of Islam,
Poetry is a sweet and sour dish,
You can interpret as you wish,
Each verse is a snapshot of society,
Part of our cultural anthropology,
So, "When did poetry become ethnography?"
This muse has set us a task,
Good question to ask, good question to ask,
As here, in poets' glory, we bask.....
Feedback welcome.
Lauren P Mar 2016
I’d been reading about boy insemination in the Sambia, Papau New Guinea. As a ritual rite of passage in this war-torn enclave, boys aged 8 to 10 were taken from their mothers to become men. This ritual included things a Westerner couldn’t fathom doing to a child - shoving sugar cane up their noses until they poured blood, forcing them to **** flutes to mimic *******, and ultimately, swallowing “male milk,” their sponsors’ *******, which according to tradition will rid them of their evil mothers’ poison and make them warriors.

Heavy ****.

You know the response that happens in your body when you experience the luxury of your food begin too hot? You kind of breath in and out, rapidly, mouth open, until the food cools down? Sitting in the cafeteria, eating a bowl of vegetables and quinoa created in a vegan space certifying no cross-contamination, I found myself making this face. This stupid, *****, “oh no my mouth may feel weird for a day or two” reflex that immediately made me sick.

I decided to close my mouth. To lean into the fleeting, no-more-than-inconvenient pain instead of running from it.

I think it may have changed my life.
Within each and every one of us
is a unique culture:

Ethnocentrism
reaches just as far inward
as it does outward:

Just because
academia
has imposed it's own
fascist, totalitarian, absolute
definitions
does not mean
that it has final say:
i postulate
such adacemic-fetishism
is merely a byproduct of
propaganda
pushed by Big Money
rather than
a genuine insitution
of respectable edification:
that is
i see it as
a mere appeal
to authority;
a well-known logical fallacy
to those who are in the know.

Tread lightly.

Modern Academics
seems to be
yet another
corrupt branch
of Business;
little more.

Academic achievement
is not equivocal
to intellectual worth:

a graduate's degree
is moreso
a status symbol
than it is
a credential
anymore.

'T'is vile idolatry
in lieu of
an individual's personal philosophy;
that's not to say it's
absolutely worthless,
but it may as well be
in today's job market
(unless it's a business degree!)


Then again,
that's just my opinion.
i guess i oughtta shut up
before Edu-nazis shut me down.

Oops, did i type that out loud?
I'm so sorry, you see,
vhat i meant to say vas:
Heil Stanford!
Heil Harvord!
Heil Berkley!
Heil vhat i am told zu heil!
Heil zhe publishing companies!
Heil zhe holders of student loans!
Heil egredious student debt
in lieu of philosophical discourse,
let alone progress!

Heil vhat i see on TV!
Heil *******!
Heil alkohol!
Heil gasoline!

Do not qvestion zhe dogma;
go back zu sleep, you sheep!
Yet another write intended to be easily digestible by the masses, without any sort of difficult, contentious, or otherwise thought-provoking material so as to preclude any sort of discomfort or disagreement.
Written solely to be popular and to reinforce the status-quo.

Maybe I should stick to music. Y'know, something everyone can agree on. ;)


-
r Dec 2014
ants lean left more than right
it's true, it must be

i read it in Fox News

especially the red ones
that wear berets
like Che

the impertinent invertebrate
arsonist fire ants

who tend to get stepped on
by the man
who exterminates

according to anthropologists.

:)
r ~ 12/30/14
kailasha Sep 2014
A steaming mug between my hands
Paper littered around me
I sit, forehead creased,
in my balcony.
I see the sky and the ground
and I'm simply floating in between.

Rolling a pen
between my fingers
watching the hills
they look greener than ever
I'd like to sleep
I'd like to read
But homework does
bind me.

This is procrastination,
level: extreme.
A little break, or another one of my little breaks.
I'm also working my bumm off.
Devoir: to do. Also, homework in French.
Katie Rose Mason Mar 2014
An ounze of gold, found in a river
Assessed as a diamond, swallowed in an ocean
When we met in England.
All of Aisa is painted in platinum
Diamonds in Bankok, too sordid to be seen.
If you had rare sight, extinct 2900 BC
You may see race in the reflection of platisation
And the ability to chip it off is as harmonious as it gets.

If not superiority found you, and alimim forefathered you
To follow your blessed unique connection
Narcissus is not all around you, nor is any other God
What exists as greatness is only you.

In true great form should be existentialism
Instead you think you are untouchable
However ignorant I find it
When my mother bought me here as a piglet
She said I would always stand alone in stoicism.
not finished.

— The End —