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Feather light words exhumed
heavy as Mussolini's clock
coo coo times, chimes
and a fascist bird sings;
sweet and succinct

Taken as is
might slight delight
The vitiation of words
in the phrases
Petals dead on a wet, rotted bough
Ezra Pound was a Poet and Fascist Collaborator
Kelly Mistry Aug 27
Grim determination
Slogging through mud
Breathing through smoke
Blinded by fog

Alone
Isolated
Moving forward with no idea where my foot will fall next

Quicksand lurks
Waiting to pull me down
Backwards
Drowning in despair

These are the images
The feelings
The obstacles
That the world imposes on me

Yet I know
That it is both real
And an illusion
Designed to sap my strength

Because I am not alone
Others walk beside me
If I reach out to them, we’ll walk together

And sometimes there is a break in the smoke and fog

I can move
I can breath
I can see

Hope lights the way, a destination is in sight!

But for now
The light and clarity is just a distant memory
That I hold onto
As I continue to move forward

Through mud
Smoke
Fog

Falling back
On grim determination
To propel me forward
Alex Scaife Jul 20
Fascism sings with sweet lies as
The chorus wails. We sit weeping,
Our history bastardised and
The body of our nation growing cold

Console us not you priests!
We need more than your words
fray narte Jun 5
tell me how to strip off this breastplate
and dress myself in pure, lace bodice
washed in all shades of subservience,
when lilith herself taught me
to bare to no man —
bow to no man.

the soil of these lands are built on liberation;
your ribs stake no claim
to what they do not own.
they merely return to dust and ashes —
the very material
of the land you betrayed —
the land you watched burn down,

and i'll tell you this:
this land, it will drift, shake, crumble
to create a catacomb big enough
for all the deaths
you deserve.

honey, this is no prophecy.
this is no threat.

this is justice out of the ribs
of those who'd fallen;
this is justice at the hands of the oppressed.
Mitch Prax Jun 4
**** fascism and
**** communism and ****
coronavirus

7:20 PM
4/6/20
Feathered Fiends
by Michael R. Burch

Fascists of a feather
flock together.

Alternate:

Conformists of a feather
flock together.

I came up with this epigram after Donald Trump repeatedly praised authoritarian "strong men" like Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong Un, Rodrigo Duterte, Xi Jinping and Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. Heroic Americans fought a war against fascism and many of them paid the ultimate price, so why is Trump giving comfort to the enemy of democracy? Keywords/Tags: fascists, flock, together, fascism, conformists, nazis, blackshirts, brownshirts, dictator, tyrant, autocrat, despot, totalitarian, cultist, militarist
The palindrome falls on shadowed riots,
clamoured mediocrity
and fever of falsified truths-
hyper-normalised until we’re writhing
in animatronic snake oil.

What’s worse, the hysteria or the disease?

Over-indulge the fascists
kiss their fists as they flail in cognitive dissonance-
white knuckles dragging to the rhythm of another media blag.

Patriotism cradles their fear and wraps it in red, white, and blue;
a stifled tricolour vision,
bathed in sanctified blood-clotted volition.
They’ll never let them come clean
they need their repugnance,
and inability to see that hope is an option
but the disparity is always just a news broadcast away.
A nice cheery Brexit poem <3
Aditya Gautam Jan 14
The headlights blaze,
a horn honks,
I look at the traffic light, I wait,
at a signal, in a traffic jam,
stuck.
Soldiers storm a university,
in a book a dog dies,
a girl fights tumors in her *******,
the world turns,
and in a traffic jam, I remain
stuck.
Later in the night,
in my bed, I lie scrolling
Instagram stories follow one another,
a quick progression:
outrage on an atrocity turns and
becomes 40% Sale on a fashion brand, turns and
becomes the best biryani in town, turns and
becomes a friend at a pub, turns and
becomes my office desk, turns and
becomes an empty page, turns and
becomes a traffic jam, turns and
does not become anything, and I remain
stuck.
References: The storming of Jamia Milia university by riot police in Delhi. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera.
Travis Dixon Aug 2019
one above another
seeking power beyond
Mother, Father, God;
three of a kind
trolled into a full house
to douse the criers with
gaslighting and rhetoric:
"make America hectic";
painting the targets brightly
through the sights of terrorists
sowing blight in the name of
white, white, white
power, money, ***
insecure, bored, loathing--
guns, roaming
thoughts, looming large
online, in hot spots
traffic's booming,
grooming a genocide
that hides in
plain sight
Elijah Bowen Apr 2019
hate sings a love song,
blithe, pretty, little tune
in honor of its heritage.
hate sings sweetly, a song
of marches and hangings,
of ghettos and slavery
it hums admiration for its people.
it sings of this land.
the majestic peaks and playful meadows.
it sings, with love, of blood-drenched cotton and  
trenches adorned with crooked bodies.
it sings of its forefathers-  
the conquistadors and pioneers.
saintly butchers and child rapists.
hate paints it’s history holier than the Sistine Chapel,  
singing blindly like a hymn.

hate sings a love song,  
possessive and vicious.  
it scrawls the lyrics on
subway walls and sycamore trees.
it sings in symbols and metaphors,
accompanied by the beat of temple gunshots and kicks to the ribcage.
hate sings through the pulpit and the pew,
clipping it’s verses from a holy book,
it sways to the rhythm of “Amens” and “Hallelujahs”

hate breathes down my neck and yours,
knocking door to door,  
bearing music with a message,  
it weeds out the undesirables one by one.
for the greater good,
hate tortures children therapeutically,
and executes those presumed guilty.
it erases generations
in concrete rooms  
and in the bellies of ships.  
it explodes homes,
smashes panes of glass,
and burns every convenient symbolism.
hate roves and rages and spits and howls,
singing the song of a beautiful future.
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