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mouth, covered in tape
still, silence was conquered
noise can still be made
if you get creative
if you get creative
Fireman, censor of literature and destroyer of knowledge, with his mighty flamethrower. He loves his work. He loves trouble and strife. He loves fascination with the people next door. Mostly, he loves his hammock. But sleep will be his final unrest.

A gift for the darkness: reading from the forbidden kept hidden in the air-conditioning duct. The walls within turn on and off like Cora Pearl. His wife listens to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. They walk on as an extinguished connection. In the flickering of his eyeballs, he dreams of driving recklessly to Dover Beach and drowning her.

Burning bright. He is burning so brightly. In the factory of mirrors, he takes a hard look. He's a flammable book. And it's a pleasure to burn. "What are you doing?" She asks. "Putting one foot in front of another." He answers.
Neelam Jul 1
Subtle hostility
wrecked the
organic expressions
creative minds
filtered by

Endless chatter
of the gatekeepers
the nervous system,

They farmed
the primeval awareness
as these humans
remained stagnant.
Neelam May 31
A fusion of streamlined energy

Irrevocable audacity

trampled upon by mediocrity.

A harvested soul

yielding ripened thoughts

A clarion call amidst

sleeping minds,

The living among the dead.
In today's world, original thinkers and visionaries are ignored by the public, censored by the mainstream media. In my word, they are "Muted". This poem is a form of dissent against the dreaded censorship.
Neelam May 5
Algorithm worships the seductress

Grovels at the feet of  masquerading deceit

It defames the visionaries and

It's a saboteur of ingenious minds

Algorithm is a merciless machine powered by greed

It's a culmination of human folly
I've come across tons of obscene photos and beguiled by the tolerance level that permeates the virtual world. According to the current design of the algorithm, it's perfectly "normal" to allow the objectification of women/men. And it's unacceptable for users to be exposed to content that'll make them wake up from the delusional mirage offered by the internet. They don't want to lose your patronage because you are the commodity sought by them. This is the modern brothel which monetise user's experience.
Lawrence Hall Mar 29
Lawrence Hall

                                        The War on Books

          The war on books, codified by Stalin’s functionaries
          at the Soviet Writers’ Conference in 1934 and ruthlessly
          waged by the secret police for the following fifty years,
          was finally coming to an end, and Zhivago’s insurgent
          guerrillas were winning.

                             -Duncan White, Cold Warriors:
                    Writers Who Waged the Literary Cold war

What books will America purge this week -
What childhood adventures, what scholarly works
What entertainments of an idle hour
Will be forbidden to us in this Land of the Free?

We pray that nations blessed with liberty
Will smuggle books to us, stories and poems
With innocent ideas that give delight
And in their innocence threaten tyrants

What books will America purge this week –
And when did we become afraid of ideas?
A poem is itself.
The benchmark of tyranny
is censorship:
once the use of force
rises above the mark,
then even the censor
must drown in the flood
of silence.
It is one thing to advocate for equality, representation, and unity.
Indeed, each is an inalienable, fundamental right.
But it is a whole new beast to lay waste
to anything that frightens you or that challenges your beliefs,
or that simply does not mirror your very own ideologies.
How heavy the hand of tyranny that now lays across our mouths,
yet how light our opposition.
Though I do acknowledge the delicacy of the issue at hand,
the fragility of the minds of hysterical mobs
who resolve to smashing windows in blind anger,
who ***** out free thought in daft castigation,
or who ban books even, it seems, like those monsters of history
to which they declare themselves to be diametrically opposed-
even in light of that, it is no excuse
to remain subservient to senseless autocrats
and the absurd legislations they bludgeon us with near daily.
To do this – to do nothing - is to lay down and die
without dignity, spineless and shameful,
though it seems that only myself and a handful of others
can recognize this.  Indeed, how easy it is to glimpse from the fringes.
I, a man of only twenty-seven years, do not recognize you, America.
I long for the days of comfort (so far removed from them, I am)
when I could safely retreat into the lofty and quiet halls of my mind
to enjoy a self-assuring thought that only I created -
a thought with no real purpose but to occupy me for a time,
to entertain me in my moments of dull apathy.
Now I shudder in a cold and contrived prison of vetted words
and unnegotiated mandates where I am told
to wrap myself in our flag to keep warm, to feel safe,
that this is for my own good.
I do not recognize you, America, for this thing you have become.
Lawrence Hall

                     Citizen Potato Head is a Class Enemy

         “A mister no more: Mr. Potato Head goes gender neutral”

              -Mr. Potato Head receives gender neutral name,
                                drops title (

“Mr.” indeed! No, no, Citizen Potato Head!
Bourgeois titles are forbidden by law
As are toys lacking in social realism
Clearly you are no good Comrade of ours

Lower your eyes in shame, Citizen Potato Head!
Your periderm, your lenticels, your pith
Your reactionary apical buds and lenticles
Your counter-revolutionary vascular ring

Your heteronormative attitude -
All condemn you – and there can be no a-peel!
A poem is itself.
Run down the masses, burn all the books
The rumor reigns
Psychic visions with spitting mouths and chained hands
Take their brains away

Defend it for pity of ugly
Evil with no shame
Fight fair
Hands up, lock eyes with a warrior of God
Shoot him in the back

Truth to your heart, shared only sparing
Behind locked doors
Like the patron saint of ignorance
Justify your way

A circumstantial execution
Of virtue scorned
Of one's who'd burn a world rather than bow a head
Deny imperfection
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