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In a rebellious sleep,
I dreamt of stillness,
my mortal machinery
a garden of rust.

A man, a monument
no whip could stir,
whose sweat is wind
and blood is dust.

The last Luddite
on a throne of junk,
armless clocks
like broken cuffs.

Free at last
yet frozen such.

Free at last
‘till woken up.
Thom Jamieson Nov 28
In every direction, to the limits of sight
Scrambling to fill their cheeks
With treasures to sustain
The coming sleep
In every corner, of every block
Frantic, pacing, scouring ground
For imaginary ignitable jewels
Dropped in a dream the night before
Down the paths of affluence
Opulent interests guarded with teeth
Frenzied hoarding for more
Smart black top-coat,
Covering a shiny shell,
On stiff skids of leather
And an armor of importance
Spitting orders, to the others
To forage and pillage,
And steal the nuts
To fatten and fan the
Flames of false dignity
And good intention
Inside holes hidden deep.
I love squirrels, the furry kind.  I carry peanuts in my pocket at all times should I see one.  They are simple, non-judgmental, and what you see is what you get.  I love squirrels, the furry kind
Dea Elizabeth Nov 28
Advertise my soul,
capitalise from my sins.
Dig the earth for coal,
a market built for kings.
Suppress for your control,
fill your life with things.
Abolition of self-control,
a life attached to strings.
Tyler Matthew Nov 27
I just don't know how people do it.
Wake up and work for a living
just to pay hospital, insurance,
utility, student bills
like there's nothing to it,
and then go to bed
with no scary thoughts beating
like cold rain through their heads.
Every day is a struggle between
either myself and the world or
myself and time or
myself and myself,
and it takes every drop of will
that I have to not reach for
the bottle, the pipe, on the shelf.
I just don't know how people,
some people, most people, it seems,
can live any better than that.
Like the one percent sitting
on top of the world looking
down, hysterically laughing
at those who have to work,
who breaks their
backs and necks and minds
trying to make something last
longer than a few ******* days.
Sure, there's beauty in the world,
but you gotta pay to look at it.
And even then, you aren't allowed
to just grab it and take it,
put a sign on it and make it yours.
Someone's already claimed
all you hold dear.
You're just stuck borrowing.
nom de plume Nov 25
Alienate my body and mind,
commodify my core;
Is my existence
a means to a profit?
The 21st century's commercial *****.

My labor is not mine,
my art is not mine;
Everything I create
liscensed and taken,
another addition to a capitalist's shrine.

I understand the poached animal:
Ripped apart,
skin and teeth hung for all to see,
and then, admired for its beauty.
Graff1980 Nov 1
Is it relative
to the struggle
to live
that worked
its way
from all
the epic yesterdays,
each generation
passing dna,
each saga
set in stone
by the sages
who remember?

Is it based
on the formula
of hourly wages
times the time
we put in
constantly working
as a cog in
the machine?

Is it
a product
of relationships
from familial
to all of our

Is it
by potential
future achievements?

Or are we just
pounds of flesh
easily discarded,
meat for the factory
cannon fodder,
children to the slaughter?

I wonder,
what is the value of life?
Julia Rogers Oct 27
What say you?
Man in a business suit
Standing to my left
In the middle of a crosswalk
Do you have a moment to talk?
Orange hands and little green men
And we go on our way
         We’ll chat another day

What say you?
Man in a business suit
Standing to my right
On Martin Luther and Lime
You haven’t worried about money in a while.
But where is your smile?
Do you know your child?
        Spare a moment of your time

What say you?
Men in business suits
Walking fast on the street
Somewhere important to be
Do rats sometimes think racing is fun?
I never thought about that
When I said I was done
               I am one of the lucky ones
Akemi Oct 21
blind bliss
the empty contour of yesterday
turns on itself

jets to oblivion
paper streams celebrate
the century’s end

thus piled
at the foot of the terminal
a mound of teeth

and convalescence in search of illness.
all the hollow men
search for gold
in the horizon

new markets for a growth
that reward the richest

insatiable thirst to fill what cannot be filled.


to survive under capitalism
the bourgeoisie must make a profit
through the exploitation of new resources, labourers and markets
the opening of new industries
which attract further investors
until the industry becomes bloated
and competition drives the price of the commodities they produce so low
that the market is flooded with too many goods for consumers to purchase

in this irrational excess
artificial scarcity is deployed
which amounts to the destruction of commodities
like the pouring of butter into a pit in the ghettos of britain
as starving families watch without comprehension
because its more economically viable to destroy what can't be sold
than to give it away
because then where would your consumers be?

we live in a world of abundance
that is kept from us
for the sake of profit

because once a commodity is free, it's worthless
and so are we
“There’s always a sucker in the till. . .and an investor in the mill.”
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