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Norman Crane Apr 29
The British anthropologist enjoyed rare tribesmen.
But after seeing his article published in the prestigious Journal of Anthropological Research,
he kept the poor man on the coals a little longer,
thinking, "Well done, old chap."
A glass is broken across our backs.
The shards take hold and we wince.
We hoist the world upon our shoulders.
It drives the shards in deep, like tacks.

We suffer the pain of cultured hate.
The daggers destined for our flesh.
Still they expect we lift the empire,
And with our wounds support its weight.

Whether they praise us for being brave,
Or curse our kind to an early death,
They all demand our labor to drive
Production until we hit the grave.
Evan Stephens Jan 18
Your name is scrawled
in the sun this morning,
& the lilies are bursting
from their green fists -
new shadows croon
from bedsheet tents,
& tiny kites of frost
play telephone lines
under teacup cumulus:
the world is your empire,
even the white lawn
flaming with winter
under the death's head
evergreen is yours now.
My suitcase eyes
will make delivery
before coffee is served.
PE Scott Nov 2020
In the streets of Delhi advertised on every sign,
Is the British army’s need for you to buy buy buy.
It may cost your turban, your home your family, and the worn clothes.
But it’s for the greater good right? of the empire of them ‘s and those.

When you pass the gender and notice his cracked lips,
And coughing and dying son,
You feel sympathy as you would for anyone.
But you can parch him as your son cant starve too,
And that’s just the law of the untouchable that are below you.

Despite your status being not much better,
You walk a stranger to their leering eyes,
As you were the clean white sashes and ties,
But they don’t realise the shackles you are also in.
As the phrase goes that you see on all the ads.

“You can’t make your own confections,
You can’t save your own possessions,
You can’t even built out of your own wood,
Because for the good of the empire of the greater good,
You will serve to pay the fees that are higher than you can afford to do.”

When you think of that as you walk these deep streets you can’t help walking in a way of shame,
As you know you can’t blame these overlords,
But the submissions and laws of old,
That they stole and now uphold.
Never to be loss of my shackles,
I pass these streets, and go on to Mumbai for the next delivery meet.
Aaron E Oct 2020
Paint myself a stone.
Equipped to roam aesthetic empire.

I walk the street,
Peeling up the corners of posters
for those who reach toward victory over death,
to see the stone beneath.

The pedestrians beside me sulk in rain
so eternally present,
it's pulsing collisions with the pavement
have drummed it's echoes into the soundtrack.

Engines stirring.
Rain pouring.
Walkers chattering.

Unnoticed erosion.

I watch the posters bleed.
A warning of their shared fate with the stone.
Canaries painted up with the brightest feathers.
Monuments like gleaming limestone pyramids.

But we won't remember the feathers as bright.

We'll remember the colors bled out, when they're bled out.
The paint on our pantheon will wash to white marble.
And they'll re-remember it as white marble.
They'll re-remember the lustrous white
limestone as dirt and sand,
when its dirt and sand.
Our history will be rewritten, as its remembered.
I haven't posted much, so I decided to put this up before I edited it all into rhyme. This is a small excerpt of a larger thread of thought I plan on continuing to write about.
George Cheese Sep 2020
you saw the body on the side of the road
dead fox splayed out, eyes closed
like sleep but forever

you think of the chain
cause and effect
you wonder where this death started
you wonder where it ends

under the weight of screaming metal and rubber tire
that’s where it ended
although the fox seems pristine, at peace
you know that can’t be true. a trick of the light,

the fire in the sky that builds the world
gives it momentum
(the only thing that matters,
but the fox is now still)

illusory: your monopoly on trauma
the fox reminds
you don’t own this world’s pain
you are component, module, product

one less fox for the hounds
your mind travels to empire
lines drawn on maps and in sand
torn apart in the jaws of dogs

what would it take to change the world?
one less dead thing?
Chris Saitta Jun 2020
Death is to become sunshine,
To break open the self to the world,
In sunwheat gold and peasant hearth,
(The sun is the only empire of peasants)
Every grain of annihilation is still a seed,
And the sunlight carries the sleepless dead,
Their melted voices are warm upon our ears,
The sounds rooted in, but when we do not hear,
No more than the dead worshiping the dead.
basil Jun 2020
nosebleed
black heart
making paper mache knives
sitting on pottery thrones
cause we're the reigning water
falling from the
quilted sky
feeling... artificial.

06.12.2020
Pagan Paul May 2020
.
An eagle lands,
as an Empire falls
into the dust of history,
its eye catches the sunset
and it takes to its roost.
Buildings smoke
and climbers climb.
The remnants of what was
clings on hopelessly
seeking to avoid the future.
The eagle closes its eyes
focusing on one lost image.
A fading dream
as the bird of freedom
slips meekly into a coma.
And the serpent of control
oozes in to replace common sense,
tightening the noose
that strangles the eagles legacy.


© Pagan Paul (22/05/20)
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