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Toxic yeti Feb 2019
Dear fellow
Tibetan woman
Who are
Ignored over whites....

You are better than them
You are beautiful
Unique
Strong and
You’re a tantric goddess.

Dear  fellow ethinic woman
Who
Is rejected
For whites.....

You are artistic
Creative
One of a kind
Lovable
Emotional


To the African American woman
Who is cheated on
By your boy friend
For a blond.....

You’re strong willed
Passionate
Loyal
Beautiful

Love your self first.
Ryan P Kinney Feb 2019
Inspired by Vicki Acquah (Mama Oladeji)

God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies

I dredged the swamp
For the bombs bursting in air
Oh, say can you see
That justice is blind
That we are all color blind
When all you can see is
The White Hot dawns early light
That might means right
Always fight with the Son at your back
And the darkness in your soul
But don’t be black?
That’s worth the bullets whizzing past
A soldier’s job is never done
Never won
A draft dodger’s never run
Never One
With the multiplicity of our multi-ethnicity
Of a nation of fools
That elects a derelict jester
Who taunts our puppet strings
Strikes the chords of the lamentations of our hearts
Heartless *******!
We are no longer whole
Just a sinking hole
A pit of despair
That stares back at us
Look up
Look down
Stay down
Lock down
Look out!
Here it comes
As above, so below
The devil’s in the details
That are reduced to black and whites
We are weapons of mass confusion
Taking aim
Hiding behind His Wall
To build a nation of prisoners
Too afraid to yell out our battle calls
To seek retribution for our disillusion
To clear up the noise pollution
And fall on our knees
To take a knee
Because we NEED
We are a world of truth benders
Rule breakers
Criminal instigators
Unforeseen fornicators
Ego MasterBaiters
Serial verbal defecators

We are nothing
No One
No where
Just present
At this moment in history
When we realized we ****** up
Hindsight was blind sided
Blinded by the light
Speckled with red, white, and bruises
Masks of shame
That we were complicit in our own downfall
The Fall of Man
The blood is on our hands
Be cause we did not stop
When we knew we could
Because we thought No, meant yes
And that she didn’t really mean it
And Boys will be boys
With their unruly lethal toys
That cuts through what was Right
And Left US divided
The Chav Poet Feb 2019
In the spring of 1945 the allied forces found them,

Thousands of Jews, gypsies, homosexuals and romanians,

Starved, beaten, unrecognizable as human,

With Millions before them gassed, prohibited from breathing.

Thrown in to ovens.

Their humanity already scorched.

Their dignity already torched.

Their personhood pawned for a system

That fault the world in the thought that the world would be better off without them.

And the holocaust was the logical conclusion

Of centuries of how the European had behaved until then.

Shakespeare spoke of the treatment of Jews and the Moors right before when

Those ships with decks that kept Africans beneath them

Sailed from Africa to America to Britain to the Caribbean —

The slaves had their langauges stolen they were robbed of their being,

And murdered for fleeing,

Nat Turner did nothing wrong — ask what you would do if you were forced to be him.

And for years we all falsely pretended

That this all ceased when slavery finally ended.

Really?

Twelve million Africans were then killed by the Dutch,

It doesn’t take much just to look that up

But it remains one of the world’s best kept secrets,

That these African men, women and children

Were murdered by King Leopold because he thought them too subhuman,

Backwards and ape like, so reasoned it was better to just not feed them and (or) **** them —

Like how Churchill viewed the colonized Indian.

How Columbus viewed the Native American,

How black men are viewed by white police men,

Why Malcolm’s militancy was a rhyme to a reason,

Why when the Nation of Islam rose, people believed them,

Why some Jews see slight on Israel as moralist treason,

Why for black men the only way out is as a sportsman or musician.

I admit — I’m white, so at first I was alien to how Kaepernick was feeling.

I admit — I’m straight so when gays told me their feelings, I didn’t believe them.

I admit — I’m poor, so when the right wing said they’ll being back jobs, I found it relieving,

I admit I’m ashamed of it, but I took that me, educated and killed him.

Talk about white genocide and cultural suicide

But it’s just a ****’s way to fantasize of a reality in which they’re victimized

But wait for the drop, the crescendo, the realization

That black men, Jews, gays, transgenders, the poor and lesbians

Are here, and really mean something.

If I was a white nationalist, **** right I’d be worrying,

Because I can feel it, do you hear it? The fire is rising.

Scared of Muslims? Soon you’ll really know what it’s like to be fighting

The people you’ve subjected to your fears, your hate, your propaganda and lying.

Feel the “Bern”, but Sanders ain’t who’ll be the cause of your metaphorical frying

It’s the one’s you’ve oppressed, the one’s you detest,

You’re a wound on society, they’ll be the zest

Of the lemons coming to cleanse you.

We want you broken and smashed, **** trying to bend you,

Or hear you or understand you, I’d much rather politically end you

And send you to the depths of hell.

Punch a ****, bash the fash, I can’t and won’t incite that

But I can and will say it would please me, believe me it wouldn’t displease me to see the movement of white supremacy

Ended.

Forever.

To quote Malcolm X: by any means necessary.
Kamala sunbathed
****** art
where in
heart she
fly to
virtual beach
in LA
so Leroy
fell and
took her
task there
in Philadelphia
her adherent
of folk
from downtown
here and
ole USA
Johnny come lately
Ziyad Ali Jan 2019
You have been gifted with vision
but you still cannot see
They're caging you in
when they should be setting you free

They're building walls
When they should be breaking them
They're breaking  laws
When they should be making them

They promised you a difference
but chose to differentiate
They promised you a change 
but chose to procrastinate

The rich gets richer
The poor are kept alive
You don't see how much they need you
No , need your vote to survive
Sean Achilleos Jan 2019
The Aftermath of Injustice

In Memory of Neil Aggett
1953 - 1982

You crossed the border to offer your expertise
To render a service to a people without a voice
A people in hell
To a nation stripped naked by gross injustice
Like a tree with no leaves
Stripped bare in autumn
Left with no shade from the scorching sun
The fruits had all been stolen by wicked men
Devoured by the debauched in khaki attire
Swollen and puffed with pride like pastry in an oven
They took you captive like Jesus once was
Punished for doing good
Until your heart cried out with an inner voice
Why the whips and chains
Wet and cold electrified feet
You knew then ... You wouldn't get out alive
Your passing cruelly induced
To end your life ... Your only relief
Like a whisper in a crowd
Who would hear your cry
Of course the papers had to say
He did it himself ... He did it his way
Oh how I wish I was invisible
There in your cell of hell
To name and shame the faces
Who unjustly got saved by the bell

Written by Sean Achilleos 25 January 2019©

Additional:
In this life it may seem that there are people who get away with almost anything and everything.
And perhaps they do.
However, only in this lifetime.
But sadly not in the life thereafter.
Like an alarm bell that breaks the deathly silence early in the morning.
It's not what you want to hear, but a necessary truth.
Written by Sean Achilleos 25 January 2019©
www.facebook.com/SeanAchilleosOfficial/
Sean Achilleos' Music is available on the following platforms:
Amazon, Apple Music, iTunes, Deezer, Google Play, Pandora, Saavn, SoundCloud, Spotify, Tidal, YouTube, Jango Radio, Nicovideo (Japan), IQIYI (China) and YOUKU (China)

Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is obtainable from the following platforms:
Smashwords, Amazon, Wordery, Kobo, Exclusive Books, Takealot, HelloPoetry, Loot, Overdrive, Bokus, Barnes and Noble
Isaac Godfrey Jan 2019
The blistering cold freezes the ground we stand upon,
the mud we protect with our lives,
as we stand beside the front line as the monotone winds
pierce soulless faces like knives,
behind the mask, we soldiers are crying,
we fight with our lives because inside we're dying.
The death of myself shan't cause effect, nor stir,
come back a husk of the man you once were,
the slaughter of one is a tragedy, as Stalin said;
but the massacre of millions is just a few more dead.

We spend our last dying moments in a filthy hole,
knowing our efforts had no meaning,
maybe death isn't the absence of life but saying goodbye,
aware of the waste of the bleeding, and screaming,
the bullets that hit us, lose our blood,
but the bullets we send lose our minds,
we sacrifice our forgotten pride for the humility of the state,
the motive long left behind.
You shan't die from the pierce of lead,
for you die the moment you start fighting,
you bleed out and merely become a statistic,
counted with the costs and explosives ignited.
Do we Die the moment we start fighting?
"Every time you drop a bomb, you **** the God your Child has born"
~Serj Tankian, "Boom!"
Shlomo Oct 2018
Emerging economies.

What they’re emerging from I don’t know.

My guess, the depths of hell.

From the frying pan, right into the fire, or worse; a well.

A deep hole stronger than gravity, the force.

To be forever under the thumb of remorse.



A modern era of endless acts, policies and bla bla bla.

Shut up with all your platitudes.

I see what’s really going on. Aha!

You speak of sustainable development.

Nice to know that you’ve led by example.

Carried the mantle for all these years.



Centuries of ruthlessness, now veiled in sheep’s clothing.

But you won’t shut up. Because you don’t speak.

You never have. You just do.

Each day that goes by, you carry on anew.

Behind all the talk of hope, equality and more progress,

it seems the wolves are lurking.



Cooking up the next tool to subdue countless.

This time, not behind closed doors. But in plain sight.

It’s scary to imagine such spite.

Each year that goes by it becomes clearer that you never cared.

You sold guns, drugs and all kinds of war.

And each time, you kept coming back for more.



You’ve built up antibodies that ensure your survival.

But sometimes I wonder if you’re alive at all.

But what do I know?

Maybe you’re more alive than ever.

Doing what you do best but always more clever.

That not even the most stable of geniuses can evade your pressure.



A strong enough foundation that each break makes you stronger,

So strong that not even the Gremlin can take you under.  

Against this dreary background, foregrounded is nothing short of magical.

Beyond hope, prayers or a thoughtless radical.

Or maybe this is all just fake outrage.

An attempt to evade the boredom of this endless monotony and baggage.



Or maybe, the term is out of date.

Like every other, that makes me increasingly more irate.

In which case, this poem is at least ten years late.

Or maybe there are too many maybes’.

And I’m perfectly suited for this time of vague uneasiness and indifference.

In which case, my imagination probably needs more sociology and less a lesson in rhymes.
Piano backed narration @ https://anchor.fm/shlomotion/episodes/Emerging-Economies-e1s1a6
my mother
is whether
trump this
newly schooled
design in
threadbare attire
was navel
today but
in her
suit there
was my
heart may
rule again
in bachelorhood
and aspire
proclivity in
flaxen hair
remember that it is trump affair
de Negre Jan 2019
why do you chew me up,
America?
why do you ask me to stand under
your flag and its stars, when in a clock’s
turning, i move as sheep to pens, going
from stall to stall, all to learn about you,
America?

why do you hold me on your tongue,
America?
why do you let your baby sheep be
slaughtered in their pens, while your
bleating is too loud for anyone to
end the massacre of the babies;
why is there no discussion,
America?

why do you show me off,
America?
why am i on your tongue, like a snow-
flake on a child's, or the straw
on a sheep's; or the dryness on a man’s
when he is done chewing his meat,
America?

why don't you spit me out,
America?

why don't you let me sit in the mud,
by the **** and the bones of the butchered
animals,
America?

why can’t you stop the bleating--
uh oh muck row
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