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Max Neumann Dec 2019
repression is a matter
of trust

if they'd trust me they
wouldn't repress me

yet they don't trust
me

there is no right
life in the wrong one
Thedor W. Adorno: "The gods look in pleasure on penitent sinners."
Max Neumann Dec 2019
they call me a half-caste
yet i'm a whole human being

my grandpa was a black slave
my grandmom a white writer

they came together
they stayed together
unwavering love

till they died:
first grandmom who was suffering from
a writer's block
ridiculously white paper she
couldn't cope...

after she had passed away
half an hour later grandpa
took his last breath pressing
his face
against her
stiff face

after a long and full life they
joined their ancestors in death

i was thirty-seven at this
time and their only heir
i received a letter containing their
will

a black sheet
one sentence white ink
and by the handwriting i could tell
they had written the will with
two hands and one pen

what do you think the sentence was
about?
this is a gueesing game and here's a hint: the sentence included the name "tizzop"

suggestions are welcome - simply write a comment...
Chandra S Nov 2019
I

THE REMARK

She scornfully remarked,
"Ha, Ha, men?.....
They are dogs,
all of them"
and then went on
and said,
"Most of my friends are men"

II

THE QUESTIONS

It was a casual conversation
but left behind nagging questions:

One:
Is woman really liberated?
For if that were so,
she would be free to sow
the seeds for a malice-free life:
A life that is
marked by sobriety
and unshakable fraternity –
A distinguished burden which principally she
can carry gracefully
till we all reach Goshen.

Two:
Has man been always liberated?
You may or may not agree,
I just say what I see.

III

THE VICTIM

Among the countless atrocities
on the vast womankind,
a hoarse, feeble voice thus pines:

Look at him;
He has been trained to ****
and be unflinchingly killed.....

He is:
an oblivious slave to his condition,
.....a victim of unmindful persuasions
by apathetic social conventions....
crippled....plagued...
by inherited apparitions
of our grand forefathers.

He has been brutalized too
on his way from a wobbly boyhood
to a hard-bitten manhood.

IV

SYSTEMIC SCARS

One could write a manuscript.
Instead I cite a sparse list
about how
he has been systematically marred
by the oppressive
socio-economic-political farce:

......of the defense ministry,
or salvation through insurgency...

......of the drug cartel,
or the liquor-tobacco lobby...

......of the boss's fancy,
......of female friendly courts,
...even sports!!!
......of the spousal gripe.....
and most of all...
....through the stereotype hype.

V

DIS-EMPOWERMENT OF MAN

Is man really enfranchised?
I am a man and I vouch otherwise.
........

Bully the other boy
else...
just play with a toy
solitary.....a *****.

You are born with a member,
Now, my goodness,
prove to be better
than your female opposite number;
An impossible task,
for no gender
is exclusively first-class.

Prove your chivalry;
find a nice young lady
or carry some forbidden
infamous label.

Hide your malaise,
pretend to be at ease,
do not brood,
or be doomed
as a sentimental fool.

Always be okay alone
wherever you are
whatever you are...
sickly or strong.

Feel guilty.
After all, all social malady
is solely your responsibility.

You are just the "unfair ***"
...an ugly accumulation
of grossly vile testosterone,
no match for the noble progesterone.

My unfortunate friend, do you see…
That radical crowd....so elite?
That is the "fair-***",
not ye.....not ye.

Apart from a backbreaking childbirth,
most other dangerous or physically stressful work
is a man's traditional berth.

Even the macrocosm
has been a scrooge,
depriving him
from the possibility of motherhood;
...the sensational miracle of natural creation.

Is man really free...?

VI

THE SLOG DOG

But yes,
as my good friend said,
there still remains
a thin little thread
of fragmentary credence,
hanging like a dire dog-collar.

It says:
Man is a two-timing slog-dog;
unfaithful to many
but loyal to love,
wagging the tail
for his lovely suffragette dove.

She can heap
his eating bowl
with puppy-love chow
and he will be forever hers.
Inspired by the fault in popular notion that only a woman is disempowered in our social setup. The truth is that both genders suffer though the reasons may be different.

I am just making an attempt to write from a man's perspective, which is often ignored or understood only in a singular way - that all men are by default oppressors of women.

It is not my intention to hurt anyone. Any offence caused is purely unintentional.
Jonathan Moya Nov 2019
1.
The biggest tree exists
to neither swing nor sway,
doesn’t wait for a strong wind
to emancipate it from roots,
to be turned into freedom papers
to be torn up by the master.

The swing was created by the master,
to exist until the limb snaps and
the sway of blood to earth
arises in a song of liberation,
that listens for the river,
follows the stream of scars
flowing down that no slave
can ever escape or runaway from.

2.

The river casts her gently onto the banks.
She vomits its water onto the soil
fearful the scent will call the bloodhounds,
the white man’s brown and black animal
bred to hunt the runaway slave.
She huddles and shivers in the rain.

She recalls her master’s words:
“Having a favorite slave
is like having a favorite pig.
One day you will have to
sell it, eat it and forgets it’s name.”

Which is the greater sin against God,
she wonders, suicide or slavery?

She feels the rising sun
filtering through her fingers
in front of her and knows
she will walk alone
100 miles to freedom.
The good friend of the slave:
The Angel of Death is at her back.

She will go underground
and her enemies
will call her Moses.

She will cast Araminta Ross,
her old slave name, onto the waters.
Harriet Tubman will be
forever her free one.
Her adopted children
will not be born
into the stink of fear
and running for their lives.

3.
She falls into a God spell
that allows her to find
a way for every black soul
to forge the river,
make each crossing a baptism.

She now knows that freedom
means losing love but
finding your greater cause,
that the price of freedom is
watching people die,
watching people live
and breathe unbounded air.
Aaron E Nov 2019
If it's a distance empty from the A to B we can't decipher.
lined along with bricks and mortar, stick and stone left how we like em.
How do efforts scurry through assuming light could bless the shadow
nose to sky with hopeful glances honing in on roads of gravel.

Growing disillusion suits a lofty breadth of chest to beat on
knowing in the end a setting sun eclipses better eons.
Apropos of nothing and devoid of any hopeful signal
known to try imposing gold on weathered stone, and broken spindles

Drew the yoke upon a sect who we prescribed a disposition
drawing red each sordid line, insuring they'll be sent to prison.
Never free. The harvester assumes the fruit have grown impatient
failing here to see them printing license plates on new plantations.

Maybe in the future we'll refuse the craven role, observer,
graduate to breaking through, return the lives we stole with fervor.
Maybe while elites are keen to trim the fat and clip the losses,
we'll discover links they hadn't seen, between our little boxes.
Oculi Oct 2019
While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The black tar envelops my unmanly sigh
A cigarette in the moon's light with a stranger
And the howling of an unsightly beast

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The fog obscures everything in sight
I'm questioning the night sky on its numbers
The forest looks in disgust and curiosity

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
I'm bleeding out, I'm bleeding out
While plucking feathers, my ear drum pops
I say my goodbye and flap my bare wings

An ornate door leads to the mausoleum
A huge crack showing the entrance of grave robbers
The youths wander inside to belittle their ancestors
And my ballad softly floats above the ground

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The young man rests near his anvil
Opening his book of poetry on an empty page
Only to find the blood of the martyr seeping

While plucking my feathers
Will the youth remember my name?
Will I be forgotten as a nameless man?
Or will I be the poet of the next century?

Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!

But do not forget me and the steps which I took
Do not forget my babbling, my bish and my bosch
Do not forget my gifts, you, receiver of blessing
Pluck them rhythmically, slave, rhythmically

My feather falls, slowly to the ground
It is the last of its kind
And as my breaths draw to a close
The children laugh gleefully
Unknowing the end is near
Extinction on my name once and for all
Pluck my feathers no more, slave,
I've just blood to give.
Ars poetica.
Nico Reznick Jul 2019
You know "robot" means "slave",
right?  I need
to believe that you are
more than your programming, need
to believe in the
love notes you wrote me in
binary code, need to believe that there's
space between the hardware and the
software for something like
the soul, need to believe in it with
all the faith that still ebbs through my fragile,
damaged circuitry.  I need to see
you break free of
these algorithms in order to believe that
maybe
I can too.
Ylzm Jun 2019
As a Seed begets a forest,
so a Lie begets Nations.
Truth blinds, Freedom enslaves,
Wisdom, foolishness, and Money, real.
The poor in spirit is blessed
But the world calls it depression.
Matt Shao Jun 2019
Once upon a time a lovely maiden did her chores
She cooked and cleaned and washed and dried and wiped down all the floors
And though her Lord looked down at her, ironically this man
Would force himself upon her because when you’re Lord you think you can

He used her for his twisted games, he thought it was alright
Sadly she just let it be, so she could feed her son at night
And so it went for years and years, till finally one day
Her son grew up and saw the truth, saying that “this man must pay”

Despite his mother’s cries and pleas, the son could not forgive
He told her she deserved much more, this was not a way to live
His mom, you see, quick to agree, would never punish him
Her heart was her worst enemy, enabling Lord to live in sin

So the son approached the man, he stood much taller than Lord did
As the Lord said “hello boy, you’ve grown so much since just a kid”
“I know,” son said, “it must be strange, to be on the receiving end”
“Of the games you play at night, I bet your wife won’t comprehend”

“Won’t comprehend the things you do, to satisfy your appetite”
“I can’t imagine how a person does this and then sleeps at night”
“At least it doesn’t matter now, because I give what is deserved”
“What’s that,” you ask? “To be frank, I really hate to touch a nerve”

“But since we’re here I will be clear, this might begin to sting a bit”
“I’ve wanted this for oh so long, because you’re such a *******”
“It’s my turn now, so turn around, this will not end quick I must say”
“This won’t be fun, and when I’m done, this broomstick will make sure you pay”
I wrote this to cast a light on abusive relationships and the corruption of those in power.
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