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Revival of a revolutionary spirit
What I represent?
The Motherland of wisdom
BLACK genesis
Check the pyramids
My heredity IS
God-man manifest in the physical,
And astral and mental
Been mastered every plane of existence
Whole civilizations who understood the Science of Living
Tens of thousands of years before any 'westernized thinking'
An enlightened people
Way before colonialism
How you gon bring democracy (now capitalism in disguise),
To Afrika where it was invented?
And dress ya pawns as 'appointed' leaders
Devil oppressors
Erased our culture, history, and identity
Spiritual genocide by 'Willie Lynching'
Karmically tied to these modern times
I gotz to watch my temper
Lost ONE,
Who found refuge in the Buddha to be most skillful
But what happened to my people?
I just wona know
My whole life,
I was ashamed of being BLACK and didn't know it
Guess it was sub-compartmental
But through practice with experience
Of accumulated virtue
I shed dem old ethers
And broke me down
Psychological brick by brick and rebuilt me
Na I'm ready for war
Norman Crane Aug 31
Every poet is a fake
eyewitness, peddler of make-believe hearsay,
A conveyor of love he never knew
in a city he never saw in a way to make you
feel the passion as if it were true,
He is an air-brusher of reality,
Thus a proselytizer of the Absurd:
That you can paint pictures with words;
That you can travel by verbs;
That you can conjure nouns by saying them;
That you can lead several lives within your only one.

Every poet is a fake
taxidermist, seller of second-hand stuffings
of souls that were never alive

Every poet is a fake
imperialist, would be explorer-***-colonizer
of the terra incognita of your mind

Every poet is a fake
Tizzop Jun 19
wings of birds were stolen by the gods, centuries ago
an earth's day lasts for 86, 400.002 seconds
children are roaming in the mind of these lines
they are counting, playfully and without feelings

days come and go, they float through our lives
i wrote about the stages of dreams and dreamt of an *******
the ruins of old poems are silver, blue and red
remains of a day's thoughts, decoded and clear, similarly

it is not wise to count seconds while you are breathing
it is not wise to count on people while they are leaving
it is strange to use "wise" in order to refer to cleverness
people of color may feel excluded by our languages

in german, "white" is called "weiß" and that sounds like "wise"
explain to me the origins of such a word, i demand it
before the river will have swallowed me; i demand an answer
poems come, poems go, leave a trace, stain – and a change

fools are flodding the streets in order to have a five o'clock tea
proudly, they are talking about their old heroes, bearded conquerors
these guys nevah really wanted to dig strangaz, dey killed 'em.
they killed unknown people, they stabbed my dreams

they murdered ancestors because they were used to murdering
they invented words without speaking but grinning
power is an invisible instrument that consists of hierarchies
power is what we see and oversee, power is the origin of wars

wars are the origin of despair; and that is nothing new
wars, though, may be invisible and silent, just in the mind
what is a war, does a war need bombs, guns and soldiers?
wars occur everywhere, daily, within 86, 400.002 seconds

the length of a day is measured in numbers; they are just inventions
numbers are man-made, animals orient on the sun and the moon
humans celebrate planets and write poems about them
we all will surive as long as we keep writing and tolerate each other
Today is a good day.
The squalid honey of this urban hive
that sways and quivers in Escolta's arms
assaulting viscous currents, I've survived
to witness time dissolve in waters warm.
     When monsoon whispers calmed the fev'rish night,
hyacinths surren'dring to kundíman songs
seduced I was to words meant to ignite
another's lust. But still 'tis I that long
     In time, desire has rotten into liquor
and putrid nectar spoiled in unloved lips--
this rancor that I spit into this river
to curse the farewell of your westward ship
     and centuries have passed, yet here I bathe
Manila's vein that bursts with restless hate
My words are borrowed,
From the tongues of those
Who stole our freedom.

Yet now I use them,
For my expression
In the name of —

A contemplation on the genuineness of my expression -- is it truly liberation when I exclusively use English, a language widely used by my oppressors?

On the one hand, I have no choice since I'm much more eloquent in English. On the other, even the circumstances that lead to the huge difference in proficiency between English (my second language) and Bahasa (my mother tongue) reeks of privilege. This is a constant dilemma I have when writing about social, economic, or political issues.
Heavy Hearted Jul 2019
S *ympathetic
Pass me da peace pipe I'm over this ****. Also **** colonialism.
Dante May 2019
I hope you know that this is foreign land.
I hope you know that when the men and women of home told me,
“You are a fool to dream”, I grew to despise their voices.
That when they told me travel was ludicrous, black was sin, and I a devil because I was a 12 year old autistic child,
I grew to despise their land.
It was not my land, I’d say. It was theirs. It was their rotting green, their putrid sand, La Isla Del Encanto.

I hope you know that this is foreign land.
I hope you know that when I left the Island, I left that house.
It was all I knew; the house, el pueblo. The men who saw me with hungry eyes. The moriviví sprouting from the wood. The church whose women scorned me.
The grave my father slept in.

I hope you know it was a terrible thing, the bone thrown at me, the thing I had to eat because nobody knew to give me meat.
Marrow. The only love I’ve ever known.

You must know. This is foreign land.
This place you call free, this place with flag blood-stained and heavy.
This place I cannot seem to breathe in, where I cannot sit without first buying coffee even if my voice cannot come out, where my head is wanted because my mind is a darkened white, my skin is muddied by race, my eyes are black, black like your wood deer and owl– and I hear the voices of the men and women from home who learned from the white man to say— black is sin.
My skin was made to be loved by the sun, my nails were grown from the bark of the tree en los montes. I am carved from the stories my teacher told me of los Taínos, and slashed with the lesson that Cristobal Colón was a man to be celebrated.

I hope you know your land is foreign.
I hope you know your flag is bloodied.
I hope you know that when I stand on your soil, my body knows

it is not free.
Aaron LaLux Oct 2018
The 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory,

the Spaniards came & went,
well “came & went” is too courteous a term,
but hey either way wherever your beliefs may lay,
they left & when they did they left behind their language & La Ermita Church,

now what’s left is gift wrapped & embodied in Native Blood & Colonial Skin,

ancient wisdom lost in translation all in the name of The Cross,
sacred status melted down for the gold they contained,
I wonder if Colombians or any South Americans for that matter,
think about the past past but the remnants that were left when speaking Spanish,

I guess the Spanish never really left,
& the Inquisition is finished but still I must confess,
Native Blood & Colonial Skin is a pretty good combination,
because 200 years after they left look what we get,

a vibrant culture a wonderful mix,
late night Salsa fiestas at Zaperoco,
hot weather hot food hot women hot music,
& vibes so alive you’d almost forget about the looming tombstone,

watching everything like it’s on replay,
like everyone is already gone which they as in we will all be one day,
when Nature finally returns to reclaim,
what was rightfully Hers in the first place,

in the same way Colombians reclaimed Colombia once the Spaniards went away,

but until Nature comes back to reclaim it’s arepas salsa & coffee,
it’s a beautiful day in Cali let’s have a lively debate over empanadas panela & pollo,
partying from sunset & on in to the humid Cali night,
making such amazing memories that we temporarily forget about the crucifix tombstones,

but all the while there those 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory…

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Elyon Sep 2018
Transfixing mushrooms wide
into soil where it spreads like jelly
congealed of teary elephant trunks,
where upon raves of reviewing waves
widened with staves of sonic craze,
like spores into you, like you!

Across Africa, truly truly –
not one country. All through chutneys,
it is poetry and Aphrodite’s ivories
where blood drowns in Lake Loch’s
scabs of **** of Ella’s contrast
back into square dancing acts
and somehow, somehow –
esta no es mi lengua
why did you ever come out?

Crumbling inwards as in space,
individual supernovae, quite a chase
I do hope Woodrow dies a boy.
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