Lyn-Purcell May 18
Patience made me a Queen
when one called me
a slave to my

I choose who I follow
I choose what I follow
I have a choice as well as will.

But thank you.
Your ignorance and lack of respect has only added to my wisdom.

Life is a marketplace where you meet all sorts of people.
In a world of diversity,
I give all respect.

When one crosses the line,
they aren't worth the time.
Right now,
I'm polishing and shining my crown.
I found myself remembering what someone used to say about me choosing to follow a faith.
And worse, they kept saying it.
So it's not something I will ever forget.
If anything, it fuels me more.
I'm friends with people from all works of life.
Some from the LGBTQ, others are atheists, agnostics, and various cultures.
We may disagree but we all respect each others opinions and not force how we feel into others' head.
But I'm grateful to have walked away from toxic people.
I can focus on me and my dream.
Kuvar May 17
No woman no cry
A mother is no exception
The tears that roll down her eyes
As she push in pains for my sake
The blood down her vagina
In between the first haven I knew
The spank that spoke life to me
That moment I cried as mama cries
That moment I sensed the pain
O Bob Marley!
Now truly I see
No woman no cry
PoetheticSoul May 14
Skinny, I was told I was not.
Skinny, I was taught.
Skinny is the thing that makes
All the men love you more,
And that makes you hate
Yourself even less.
Skinny is the answer to every
Question you ever had.
Your intelligence, personality,
And your perspective,
It all means nothing. Even your
Heart means nothing, if
Your body is not thin.
Tony Cortez May 13
On this yacht I was watching a kongo line of essentially dance
A mixture of cultures

It was beautiful if only the rest of the world could be like this
Happy & Free

I promise when I get there
Just you and me will dance
Its called Danza Kuduro
I know you will like it
My love
Culture is amazing when it comes together
Were all human
Nico Reznick May 11
(A follow-up to "Whimper", which was written in response to "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg)

I have seen the best insanity of my generation destroyed by the worst minds.
I have seen humans turn into robots and the robots turn to fascism
because of What The Internet Told Them.
I have seen the weaponisation of our most rancid fears and watched
in horrified fascination as our inner demons got their own agents.
I have seen and felt the horizon constrict so tight, it’s getting
hard to swallow.

You have to understand, this isn’t what I wanted.
You have to realise, this isn’t what I meant.

This isn’t crazy.
This isn’t pure, natural, spontaneous crazy.
This is synthetic madness, manufactured madness,
genetically modified, mass-produced, mass-marketed madness:
As Seen On Television; approved by test audiences;
none of the calories, all of the carcinogens.
This goes beyond the deplorable allure of a free red hat.
This goes beyond dinosaur-dodo-dumb nostalgia for a blue passport
and a golden age that never was.
This is why you hire Cambridge Analytica.
This is the Project For The New American Sentence:
The message is, “It’s chaos out there, people; do what the hell you want.”
And the echo chamber,
and the echo chamber,
and the echo chamber,
and even the rage…
even the rage isn’t real.

Mercenaries, not maniacs.
No more lunatic songs.
That howling you hear is only feedback:
an endlessly shrieking loop of absolutely nothing, broadcast on
every channel, into every dream, until the fillings in our teeth buzz
and our institutions tear themselves apart, as
component materials hit resonant frequency.

This is how the world ends: Not with a whimper, but with

We got the message wrong, giving credence to people
whose hatred is their only art.  They taught us
to avoid such human folly as Ruinous Empathy, to
distrust painful, decaying love, when these were the
things that might have saved us.
There’s a poet I know, who served in ‘Nam, who thinks
he might have even forgiven Nixon.  
Field Commander Cohen has checked out of the Chelsea Hotel,
deciding we wanted it too dark for him.
Too many of our heroes have turned out to be monsters.  We're haunted by
historic sex crimes, Cold War ghosts and the knowledge that we
could have done things differently.

The message was supposed to be, “It’s chaos, be kind.”

There's no such thing as a stable genius, but we've got
fake news and alternative facts; we're discovering the side-effects
of living post-consequence.  We're hypernormalised.  We're
past shock; our incredulity stretched beyond its
elastic limit; we've broken satire and nothing is really funny any more.

Welcome to the Disinformation Age.  These are our Interesting Times:
Glee Club and Gun Rehearsal; bloodied blue uniforms;
tears for the victims of the Bowling Green Massacre;
an early by-election for Batley and Spen;
very fine people on both sides; Thoughts & Prayers, our
only surplus, the ultimate fiat currency;
poverty porn and the return of social murder (71 dead at Grenfell, NHS black alerts, rickets making a comeback, lead in the water); Drink the Kool-aid; humans like Kool-aid - porn stars on polygraphs; Netflix and Kompromat; the portrait
in Kissinger’s attic; Ayn Rand for Beginners; Corporate cosmology
and casino capitalism; government by gaslight; constructive ambiguity
to preserve a kakistocracy; bring me
the head of Roger Stone!  #EndOfEmpire;
Windrush and Stupid Watergate…

I said we needed our madmen back, but not like
this.  Not
these posers, these gangsters, these Quislings…  
These are merely bad actors, playing to the crazy dollar,
but do not doubt their sanity,
which is icy and cynical and monstrous.  But,
in the cold fusion reactor of that sanity, they are unknowingly
forging a new generation of madmen, whose madness
will be righteous and real and burn with
a pure, perfect heat that cleanses and cauterises.  They
will know the difference between human
and humanoid.  They will be less afraid than us, less quick to
hate strangeness. They will use their craziness to
create, not destroy.  They have
already begun.

I know this because
I have witnessed six minutes and twenty seconds of silence that blazed hotter, howled louder than all your Fire and Fury.  I have seen
riot cops in Baton Rouge turn whiter and recoil in fear from serene, dignified, unarmed surrender. I
have heard the young sweetly whisper to the old,
‘Fine, but you’re wrong, and we’re right, and we will outlive you.’
You can’t hide that behind a wall.
You can’t say that life doesn’t matter.
You can’t filibuster the future.
Everything was forever, until it was no more.

Our madmen are gone, and they’re not coming back.  
But there will be others.
The best minds of their generation will not be destroyed by your sanity.
Follow-on to "Whimper", posted here:
Sam May 11
Ushered from lips divine

are sweet symphonies -

potent in composition. 

A flaxen breath wielded forth 

to fissure the pillars of Babylon. 


Her temperament quakes,

sending shivers across terrain 

my frame stays staunchly rooted to.


I'm jolted conscious

by might to scar mountain stone, 

a statue with the presence

to balance the weight of bearing. 


Her pigment bleeds a bronzine hue, 

every pore succulent with sun

from a land afar - dialect closer to home. 


Our cultures synergise 

in the smouldering pot of diverse urbanity;

surrendering to harmony in juxtaposition. 


I wish us be, though I doubt my willing fruitful - 

I'll swallow the bitterness of division,

just to manifest it true.
Poem about liking someone from a different culture.
A breathe of words ― 
a gust of thought scattered;
welling silence ruptures
bulging vault chambers
with the patience
of tongue-tied hearts

In a long deep breath
pith of soul manifests;
rich with the breathing spirit
of life that's passed

A timeworn lid spinning
on a blue glass jar
Indigenous roots
and memories tender,  
perpetuity spilled
on fruit cellar floor

Segues of ancient culture ―
evolution derives
from many roots
trying to catch
time in a bottle;
a travelogue
of saved beginnings
in a mason jar

Life’s native seeds gathered
the immemorial soul
of the earth sown
and reaped;
sprouting unstilted
for which
ever fleeting time
cannot hold

Jesse e Stillwater
09  May  2018
saving native seeds
sowing continuum
fostering one love
reaping the fruits
of perpetuity
Cat May 10
Dear opposite sex,

Before you open your mouth to say
I am your typical average, slut, whore
Cause my skirt is too low-cut,
or the neckline of my shirt is
too low
That I should have thought about it
before I walked through the door.

How about you put on my shoes and go for a walk
Maybe you'll understand
That I can't walk just down the block,
For a carton of milk or some spam
Without men calling "hey miss" or "hot damn"

Even when I am wearing sweatpants
or a plain boring hoodie that
hides my shape
I even can't escape
their terrorizing stare

Their eyes rip through my clothing
leaving me bare.
Even no skin,
I cannot win.

Walking down the street on any day
clothed "appropriately" or not
is like wearing nothing either way
no use to conceal

                they see what they will

Maybe you'll realize the power within a stare,
That leaves women just like me
struck with fear
because they never know
when danger is near

To be woman is to fear,
it is what we are taught
when we are young,
and what we will learn

when our bodies blossom and grow
to the shape and form to
the standards society teach us
to what is considered the norm
and how to conform

Then they turn around and shame us
when men snear at
jeer at
and rape us
Why is woman always to blame
While male is protected and hidden in name

You see, our lives, already, is a fucking game.
Where they have already written the rules.
Well, we all know this isn't a fair fight.
As of now, the price of safety just isn't right.
Tony Cortez May 6
I'm grateful to have been born in a Hispanic family, I don't look it but I'm nearly full on Puerto Rican
Thing Is I don't speak much spanish but I've always been influenced by the culture I mean it is after all my culture
One thing ive always liked Is that it may be listed as a race but its actually three in total
Taina the native tribe of our island
Spaniards or Europeans as we know now but Spain
Lastly African- a strong and noble people

the history isn't perfect and it's very rough but this and the other two races are amazing in their own right

Unfortunately the creation of Puerto Ricans is a bloody one and the unforgivable thought of slavery makes me a bit of ashamed but that was our ancestors

We are actually really nice and well adjusted
It's weird when we are often complemented by being described as one of the most well looking races both males and females

So for those who may have been curious or not known, Puerto Ricans are nice and good people we really don't discriminate but all races have those certain people and we can't be the exception

I'm proud to be this to have the blood of three different races in my system to come from so much culture even if my features reflect that I am white and have blue eyes

I don't really know how to end this one
So I'm proud to be Puerto Rican
Hope you guys enjoyed this
Ken Rafiñan May 5
In intimate spaces we co-create confessions
on the walls of our throats.

Cryptic messages
we encode and decode
in a language lied about
as it lays around in suggestive shapes
and gets mistaken as love:
the fatal distraction that traffics erratically in abstractions.

Together, the intricate taxonomy of hegemony that
and represses—
slices us ever so slightly
making microtears on the tender insides of our wrists.

And so we get by masturbating ourselves with their bodies,
those sensual others,
each on a sin committed—no commitment.

Or so we like to tease and appease our precious palates.

Fleshing out a casual cling,
or an undefined thing,
that’s a little less attached
and much more detached.

Every day lived on the level of the supraficial: an anthology of escapist parodies—
our idle hours taken witnessing the weaponization of the human condition.

Asymmetrical power relations infect the non-linear ecology of digital space;
a pandemic of aesthetic proportions—the bourgeoisie fixation.

Acknowledge or pretend—
these are the representative orientations of the privileged.

The plural fluidity of a have-not culture transmitted—
processual, yet patterned—
a shaky stance while standing on shifting ground.

My only wish is for ideas and egos to be as they are: warm: malleable to the motions and outcomes of expansion and contraction.

We are a productive catatonia personified and manifested.

These are the semiotics of a soon-to-be-irrelevant decay.
This is history’s obsession with cyclical pragmatics. Eventually, a submission the psychotic use of political narcotics. The constant critique, endless in its scope, is our continuous expansion in the realm of possibilities.

In time, we will become as primitive as our ancestors.
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