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I learned that the key
To opening the gates
Of stardom

□□□□☆=/  \=☆□□□□

Starts with
******* Bradley Cooper
Figures, at least he's hot!
And so talented too!

Do you think he'd like me?
Shepherds, cobblers, carpenters and joiners of all creeds and worldly dreamers
You troubled souls, the brittle spirits drinking spirits cleaner
Taunted workers of yore, farmers gone and industries endowed
Disseminating futures, who's gonna build your ***** barrels now?
**** it, I'm going to work in a call center
Continuing clearing my notebooks. I think this one was supposed to be inspired by the death of coal industry and other types of jobs going extinct, but I am not sure anymore.
Abigail Rose Mar 9
I never asked to join the rat race.
But being a cognizant participant of the
perpetual scramble
I've noticed
it seems
we're always neck-and-neck,
it's me!
No, *******--
it's you--you're winning--oh,
wait--it's me again!
him, me, you...
Is this a marathon we're supposed to sprint?
Are  humans even capable of doing that?
Or... hamsters?
I slow down and become a fat ******* lump,
moving slowly, and yet somehow,
there you are beside me still.
There is our row of hamsters wheels,
and here is our imaginary race
to a finish that exists in an industrial dream.
The soul resides in the breath
we can never catch
as we are racing--
I'm winning!
You, me, you, him, her, me... again.
And again.
And again.
For efficiency's sake
we race in a row.
I need a ******* break.
Ja Coby's
father 'bout
the crack
then fought
a tort
in awe
while this
court of
*** was
dowd but
next this
coat of
paint and
their brush
of laughter
and forever
musty last
Julia Feb 9
i have an Uncle
he steals my money
he steals my ****
and burns it all
in front of me

i have an Uncle
who’s a misogynist and racist
a murderer and ******
a fascist and a terrorist
he stole my Fathers’ lands
he beats my Mother’s womb

he is addicted to white powder
black blood and green gold
he worships forces
to seize control
over every mind, body, and soul
my Uncle belongs in prison
but he owns those too
written on 10/19/18
Ken Voltaire Nov 2018
Dark have been the days of late.
Feasting upon the rotting flesh of suns past,
None shall be delivered.
Grown too tall,
Hungered far in excess of what any stomach could carry,
Carried farther than any man dareth venture.
A ceaseless machine,
Cries out in smoke,
The ghastly thing spews,
Waste, lies, misery,
Upon those unknowing folk who drinketh from deceiving waters.
Strong trees stand no longer,
Delicate flowers of darkened shades,
Pilfer the landscape.
Intoxicating petals, formerly fair,
Trigger a grand collapse of the self.
Birds flutter hastily,
Stars spin before wide eyes,
A veil unending shields against the truth.
Many fear I hath become a madman.
The last star fades behind the peak,
The valley grows dark,
‘Tis the fate of I to fall into oblivion.
Methinks that sheep are blind, yet loyal,
Holding course without falter,
Keeping pace with the masses.
I apologize, dear listener,
For I fall into old cliches.
The stone that breaketh herds,
With force unmoving yet natural,
I stand before thee as a lone stranger,
Plowing against trivial time.
Betrayed by my own kin,
Great hammers are forced upon delicate fingers,
Hand over hand climbing ever onward,
With mangled digits.
My palms very nearly caress the precipice,
Idle hope keeps legs steady,
Mind weary,
Soul ever searching.
Brandon Conway Oct 2018
When I first passed the gates
into the metallic garden
stamping out seeds
                      for the junkyard
with its infinite cardiac output

I gazed upon the eyes of the creatures
that inhabited this oily soil
                            of steel and chemicals
all I saw was a cry for help
to escape
          to be away
                just one day
they cry, just one day

I got caught in the claws
and it scratched
                       and scratched
the wounds heal but the scars stay

I have become a trapped animal
                                     with eyes of dismay

There's little chance of escape
I can dream
           I can pray
one day, I echo
               one day

Now I am just taxidermy
for this godforsaken industry
and they call this
After wide-set earthen towers mask
the highway runoff, campers come off lofty
horses, signal boorishness to breeze. Sat alone
where rolling orange will tease
the peace from perfect dark - the hint of dread
forgoing litness to expose a martial bode -

the low-slung limbs of stern bring
trained to-wrist like faithful,
catching glimpses of what common good
afforded us naff hazes like the present
sickle answer, whale-bone grief and prescient
danger. Fix a poultice,
love’s soft landing seldom not
for treasures come.
Revive the brazen lungs

in boasts of rushes, random-lit,
forestalling sodden semblances of wit
from Sunday’s arsenal -
right-matched to cleaner absences
than your limited souls could ever pare.

She’s felt - a fabric after our own hearts,
a loan from common waltzes,
taciturn in downshifts of this archen land -
of course - of hand, a slight
anomaly for watchers to observe.
Each roadblock touches nerve.
Chris Neilson Aug 2018
Along the bus filled corridor
from the south of the city
through the Victorian architecture
of Withington and Fallowfield
to the world food of Rusholme
with its plethora of barber shops
shoe shops, shisha bars, cafes
Philips Park and the eye hospital
then the university quarter
students like woolly hatted ants
a human tide of books and backpacks
our future professional generation
of doctors, scientists and philosophers
part time poets and musicians

Into the city centre bustle 
of hipsters and hustlers
high flyers and homeless
rough sleepers and penthouses
side by side in a sea of incongruity
The roman settlement of Castlefield
now sky scraping soulless concrete
in this original city of industry
where workers downed tools 
in cotton mills for anti-slavery 
American Civil War brethren
built on old world immigration
integrated into a working class
of blue collars, graft and toil
bones of its makers in its soil

Images of the lost industries
now decorate ornate beautiful bees
scattered in and around the urban sprawl
timely reminders of our heritage
of Northern grit in all its colours
of invention, science, sport, music and art
of protest, achievement and inspiration
a city that's historical
a city for the here and now
a city for future nascent talent
a city that's changed the world
Manchester, a city for all ages
I wrote most of this after returning from a hospital appointment earlier this year but have now added to it to bring it up to date
Julie Grenness Aug 2018
Oh, great horsemother in the sky,
Here is a question from a bard such as I,
Are you shooting a racing vet today?
Another horse was destroyed for gain,
This is, of course,
A personal hobby horse,
If a horse gallops anyway,
Why are you whipping them this way?
This is the sport of kings, you see,
Death for a horse, if not its jockey,
Sounds to me like animal cruelty,
Racegoers turn the other way,
Drink some more best champagne,
This is question, better yet,
Does horsemother ever shoot the vet?
We lost another beautiful thoroughbred today, shot by  the racing industry.
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