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There's nothing special about my greedy utopian dream:
I'm not off grid, or more ecco' friendly;
I still order luxury goods from overseas, hoard, engage in cliques, use the internet, dream about my own bit of land, claim any benefits I can.

I use the same drugs, minerals, roads, hospitals, banks, and I pollute the same air; with the same stink of self righteous elitism; because just like everyone else; I am unique!

(Off-grid irony)
There is nowhere off grid, our human place in the world is a human construct a reserve ffs
The morning broke upon the valley, light illuminating their home, smoke curling from the top of the tipi. Symbols of omens dancing across the rays of light. The birds awoke, their song in time with the murmuring of the stream.

They slept on inside; Naked bodies pressed tight for warmth and comfort. Wrapped in fur hides and each other. Dreaming of plentiful game and an abundance of children. The dogs stretched and sniffed for bones and game. The man stretched and sniffed for her, burying his face into her long hair, warm with the scent of skin and flowers and dreams.

He pulled her tight against him, his hands grasping at her curves as one does for the fleeting memories of a dream. He slid himself between her legs and pushed into her deeply, she awakening with a soft gasp, her eyes sleepy yet alert, her body willing against his, her kiss upon his lips tasting of the morning dew. She opened herself beneath him as a flower opens itself to the sun, and he filled her with his seed. His skin smelled of fur and smoke and his eyes promised her a child.
Apporva Arya Jun 2019
But still somewhere between
Faith and grid,
Stood hundred lines of doubt,
Regret and fury.

At times I stood here
All broken and lost
After a war,
Won over what we call LIFE.
Life is a beautiful war. It's an amazing race of emotions from hope to despair. I chose to fight ..What you chose?
effie ebbtide Apr 2018
if it were up to me (and it isn't, it's up to dice) the universe would be made of a mixture of purples and half-aware blues,
separated only by the sardonic coolness of hologram grids.
doctor doctor! doctor doctor! focus on the wound the sun is inflicting upon the ocean riddled
with streaks of white, i'm losing the saline in its scent
and all that remains (all that shall remain) is reddened sand.
furthermore i would allow bamboo to grow anywhere it pleases
not a **** but a gift from the ground below
not messing up floor plans but rather improving them in a very experimental way you wouldn't understand
the architecture is okay
the sky is okay
the rain is full of acid but it's otherwise okay
oh please get up off the ground i need to clean it
Star BG Nov 2017
I shall WRITE
inside day
with intention to make a difference.

Scribing from mind to HEART,

I shall write
tweaked by senses
with goal to make a difference.

Composing, as if words
are feet of dance,
and breath is ink.

And so I shall scribe
adding my contribution
to the group conscious grid
so others rise.

The place, where my own star shines
bright upon world
to make a difference

StarBG © 2017
Inspired by Xaviera Allan
Clive Blake Sep 2017
Monolithic steely strides;
Cables strain, whilst nature hides,
Arms outstretched from metal sides,
A buzzard glares as by he glides.

A pylon dwarfs a nearby tree,
But makes no home for bird nor bee,
Landscape ruined, just so that we
In idle warmth ... can watch TV!
STLR Oct 2016
Just another person on the grid...Where is my place, where do I fit?  What if I don't I rather be known in a place that I have to establish..musician to Artist to maverick...marvels created from magic..I've never cared for the, diamonds  nor fashion...I rather share with the masses...let's form a generation that classes no rules or structure, just life from pure passion...
Brandy C Zoch Jun 2016
Run away to a foreign country, one with plush yellow green pastures. The grasses hiss soothingly as the breeze brushes them down this way and that. My home, a simple one room shelter built atop a broad and wise dark leafed tree who has welcomed me to its strong open arms. The skirt of my plain brown dress tickles the tops of my feet as I step down onto the soft soily earth.

There are no people here but I am not alone. The wind is here to lift the overflow of thoughts from my ever questioning mind and the water is here to soothe me and commiserate like an old companion purified from the complications of humanity. The dirt is my mother and my father, providing for me. Nurtures me with its succulent plants and cups its hands so that I might take a few small fish from them now and then.

A spotted sun perch hangs behind me as I perambulate meditatively. I see a few delicate vibrant blossoms on the side of my arborous home. They chime a brilliant tune that I will later compose onto a clay canvas. The afternoon is spent cleaning the small token and then toasting it over fire. I tend the patches of nearly wild vegetables and fruits. The most desirable ones plucked for my plate.

Guardian stars begin to dot the serenity of a dazzling dusk that demands my awe. I am aware of my tiny existence and its grand insignificance yet at the same moment I feel as though I was specially chosen by the cosmos to witness this perfect event. An intoxicating shiver grips me suddenly as a gust flits up my spine and through the back of my hair. Slowly it falls and the lulling chirps of a million violinists begin to play to one another. An admiring amphibian adrift the pond lilies relinquishes some commending croaks.

As the dark begins to settle in I climb to my aerial cottage to lie down. The rustling of my nest-bed reminds my neighbor owl of the time and she hoots appreciatively before flying off to begin her hunts. The splendid nocturnal symphony soon sends me to my dreams.
Mar. 2, 2010
SassyJ Mar 2016
As I sit on this assigned desk
ears drooling with institution gel
I swirl on the seat, the wind pause
Musing in evangelised dilemmas

Lobotomised to jerking veracities
Sagacity amateurs boost egos
Stooping and stooging in asylums
Barricading others progression

Regressed losing solid grounds
Jurisdictional custodial supervisions
An infused scent of propagandism
Scenes of robotic observational modelling

Unprincipled to insist on another destiny
Calculating targeted risked predictions
Regulated to invigilate and unroll a matrix grid
Who am I? To forge his,her or their trench

— The End —