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My Dear Poet Jan 2022
I’m back from the grave
and I’ve learnt to behave
it’s a hell of a good school
to punish wrong
I attended every class
every subject I passed
my grades were looking strong

I advanced with honour
to a saint and a scholar
the devils in the detail
in an invitation to teach
on a topic I excelled in
that old subject on sin
God knows I couldn’t stay in hell
and preach

So I applied for a place
that the good call ‘Grace’
for I’d rather be a sinner seated
in heaven
my lord…how I’ve grown
so thanks, I’m off home
its a ‘good’ bye,
when the good die
and glad to be leaving
Andrew Layman Jun 2021
To all the enslaved
that are still in debt
I nail this note
to a wooden frame
that you still need to open.
for all of you,
that have tasted society's boot
I tell you---
bide your time
turn the other cheek
and learn to respire
you will outlast the fake
outlive all the ungrateful
and become the one true legacy.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2021
}} who would lust to list to a guy named Waldo? I asked…
This guy I know, Al, he says it contains references to mort-ifying experiences, AND those could boost our points made, so AI suggests I read: Ralph Waldo Emerson, from 2021-
If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.
A man must consider what a blindman's-buff …
{*******, looks it up, it's like Marco Polo in a public pool}
he goes on
what a blindman's-buff is this game of conformity.
{ he assumes his audience is a we, We all play, back in his day, this game was considered religion, and
religion was some form
of Christianity, the rest were heathen,
in that game,
conformed religion was the only winning
peace time occupation,
which Blake bitten poets might imagine fitting into,
who knew?
at that time, now
the game is set, default mode
on cult startup,
first hook is, God called you because
you are like us a loser without hope, without help,
Tetzl, build me a tourist attraction,
make the Germans pay,
have all the ******* artists paint its walls
to prove each believes
the story the edifice shall tell.
{listen, she whispers, hear her first entreaty only once}
Now breathing is like expanding the game:
inspirational sci-psy-psi, know as we say we know,
we are those who know,  ecce ****,
-------- those evil inquisitors, were me -
-------no - I was Jaques De Molay,
sure, ri-ight,
and I'm Oscar Schindler, when he saves Anne Frank.
so the seeds we sow
grow where hearing ears
cross reading eyes and all
the best ideas come in double

space-ing to allow for lines that wrap at the frame, fully phreakin' justified, on any screen with leading letting space be normal, thus limiting out of bounds imaginary
why lines come in expensive short lengths,
last issue of The New York Times composed using hot metal (2 July 1978) was titled
Farewell, Etaoin Shrdlu

|| the hot metal was lead. Like bullets, but letters.

In this medium, messages know
there are no valid reasons
for long justified lines and
space is not only there there
between lines that start at 10, to leave fixit room,
an ancient way of making room for right in wrong code.
Add a lin -oops line
Etaoin and Shrdlu and lorem ipsum, too
RW-if old waldo had been enabled,
as I am,
with mortally infinite paper
and ink visible to any eye,
Now Waldo, tell Seri to spread the word, y'back..
he may then
have written in my short line attention span,
concept upon concept
except ...

Here's Waldo: 2021, with no ******* comments…
The objection to conforming
to usages that have become dead
to you
that it scatters your force.
It loses your time and blurs the impression
of your character.
If you maintain a dead church,
contribute to a dead Bible-society,
vote with a great party
either for the government or against it,
spread your table like base housekeepers,
— under all these screens I have difficulty
to detect the precise man you are.
And, of course,
so much force is withdrawn
from your proper life.
But do your work,
and I shall know you.
Do your work,
and you shall reinforce yourself.
A man must consider
what a blindman's-buff is this game
of conformity.
If I know your sect,
I anticipate your argument.
I hear a preacher announce
for his text and topic the expediency
of one of the institutions of his church.
Do I not know beforehand that
not possibly
can he say
a new and spontaneous word?
Do I not know that,
with all this ostentation
of examining the grounds of the institution,
he will do no such thing?
Do I not know that he is pledged
to himself not
to look but
at one side,
— the permitted side,
not as a man, but as a parish minister?
He is a retained attorney,
and these airs of the bench
are the emptiest affectation.
most men have bound their eyes with one
or another handkerchief,
and attached themselves
to some one
of these communities
of opinion.
This conformity makes them not false
in a few particulars,
authors of a few lies,
but false in all particulars.
Their every truth is not quite true.
Their two is not the real two,
their four not the real four;
so that every word they say chagrins us,
and we know not where
to begin to set them right.
Meantime nature is not slow
to equip us in the prison-uniform
of the party
to which we adhere.
We come
to wear one cut
of face and figure,
and acquire
by degrees
the gentlest asinine expression. {;}

There is a mortifying experience in particular,
which does not fail
to wreak itself also
in the general history;
I mean
"the foolish face of praise,"
the forced smile which we put on
in company
where we do not feel
at ease
in answer
to conversation which does not interest us.
The muscles,
not spontaneously moved,
but moved
by a low usurping wilfulness,
grow tight
about the outline
of the face
with the most disagreeable sensation.
I find I digest short lines better, and waldo doesn't mind being paid a bit of attention, he had some ideas that breathe easier in this century,
The entitlement to our existence.
There is no room to breath,
the very oxygen in this room,
they only see how to monetize it,
how to groom it
for consumption,
irrespective of its destruction,
no concern for its disruption.

The entitlement to our air.
How can I reform that which seeks to destroy me?
That seeks to own me?
To own my wares,
shows no care,
demonstrates no sympathy for my racial
and colonial history.
No empathy to put himself in my shoes,
to see the trauma of the generational injuries
wrought by his ancestors.

The entitlement to our space.
Reform sounds nice,
but more than thrice,
I've been told revolution is the only way
to recover what's been stolen from us.
Reform is their message, palatable, told to us
so that they can keep their wealth, money, and resources.

The entitlement to our bodies.
They sold to us a lie
they would work with us
And we believed it because we wanted
to believe in their redemption.
Redemption is the lie reform embraces.
Revolution is the only way to break out of the cages
they set for us.
At its heart, it is counter to their goals,
and so it is labeled as dangerous,
increasing their fear of us.

With revolution they will be entitled no more.
Melody Mann Mar 2021
Withered by time the rose wilts,
its beauty transitions to realization,
in awe of the formative manifestations,
petal by petal the colors fade into a rust red,
shedding its youth and accepting its maturation;
Brittany Ann Mar 2021
Most of the political world
needs to reevaluate on
how indifferent neutrality
and tactful compromise
does not amount to
equal measures
in a thriving democracy.
Dave Robertson Jun 2020
To be ginger in a heatwave
is to know that a surfeit of energy
that enthrals the populace
has consequence

Like any addict with an allergy
landed on a thing they love
you learn to skirt and sample
knowing sickness follows

The uninitiated will gorge and fall
swearing off the juice for good
and withdrawing a raised voice
which is bad

Pace yourselves for the longness
of an unexpected summer
so that when winter hits
we continue to burn
Dave Robertson Jun 2020
Glimmers in the hinterlands
as I begin to settle
into reaching my Old Ben days.

So rage reshapes, tempers
and can be passed
to the compassionate and energised youth

Torch will still be borne
and saber swung
but I’ll pay in aches and pains
in coming days
and likely collapse to
sage blue spirit status

My anger slowly feels
like an elegant weapon
for a more civilised age
while the streets call
for the bluntness of a blaster

I’ve mastered thinking round and round
and missed chances to parry,
but my force will be added
to the great wave of change

This empire is dead
Douglas Balmain Jun 2020
Feel the fire’s flame
cutting through our nights,
its burning heat
glowing in our eyes.

Feel the teeth grinding,
lungs heaving,
knuckles cracking,
slides racking…
Fear’s vibrations
and choosing sides.


Turn away,
relax your breath,
and adjust your eyes…

Can’t you see the face
hidden in the shadow
cast by its fired night?
Can’t you see its narrowed
eyes, the tight smile
emanating from a twisted soul;
the mind that’s taken Center
while we burn at its poles;
the eyes that know
our fractured factions
keep us weak, in conflict,
unorganized and opposed?

The identities we’ve been served
keep us forever in chains,
ensuring the blood we spill
is spilt in vain…
that change is only a slogan
an old institution
with a new name.

We are not black nor white,
we are not left nor right,
we are neither American
nor un-American:
we stand as souls of no nation.
We are people, we are lives—
lives that have been
and confused.
We are people
whose attention and energies
have been compromised.
We are lives
who have been divided
by the rhetoric of a power
that wishes to harvest
our spirit,
our vitality,
to serve its interests.

Join your fires,
join your minds.
See yourself
in all who you are not…
for you live within them,
and they within you.

We fight for freedom,
not a flag;
for Being,
not for land.

When this truth is felt,
united we will stand.
Not as numbers in a system—
nor factions divided
by city blocks—
but as Beings,
as lives,
whose chance at
a new future
has been restored.
Originally published at
Grey Jun 2020
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