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Homunculus Jan 2021
**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.

We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.

And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.

If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.

**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.

Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.

Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call
'civilization'?

Or
is it that you feel something more. . .  
poignant?
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?

When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?

The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.

Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .
A bit too much wine is the culprit here, I suspect.

1: Murray Bookchin, radical social theorist and major figure in the ecology movement.
2: "In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation." - Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle, 1967
3: The Borges story, credited fictionally as a quotation from "Suárez Miranda, Viajes de varones prudentes, Libro IV, Cap. XLV, Lérida, 1658", imagines an empire where the science of cartography becomes so exact that only a map on the same scale as the empire itself will suffice. [source: Wikipedia]
You raised me from my birth,
Even from when I was a toddler
You promised "by you till death"
Before I even know you're a mother.

My teen years are all before you,
You nurtured me well to be strong
To stand for the right cause, any who
Needs your courage and fight along.

But, the story has changed so great,
You stabbed and pulled triggers on me
So also as the love I have turned to hate,
I deserve better O mother, even me.

Heroes of yesterday are on your street
Clothed with the blood of your brutality
You deserve better and not this hit,
When will you wake to this reality?
Sungmoo Bae Aug 2020
Say it to me, baby,

that you want me—still—
after all that I've done to you,
and only.
    
I hear you breathing out hot
—lying flattened on the cold floor—
even after the hard bruisin'

you've gone through—swell, sure it was.

And I wrecked such havoc on you
all because I care for you,
nothing more, nothing less.

I beat you up swell
to get you in a better shape
just like a sculptor

beating his stone
into the shape of David—bare naked.
I'm modern Michelangelo, so to say,

and I want you
to whisper to me
that you crave me,

    that you desire still
    such tyranny of mine
    even more. So just say it,

for your perfection
and a sheer thrill that follows
—all these right at our hands—are so close.

    Wicked as it is,
    my whispering to you demands it.
(C) Copyright: Saul Bae (Sungmoo Bae)

Last Revised: 21th of December, 2020.
Dinesh Padisetti Mar 2020
There is beauty in working with hands
That I can never describe in words
Yet here I give it a try, before my land goes dry

Everyday I sow seeds & plant plants
Without knowing what they'll look like
In years to come, when there's no music to hum

Some say it's boring farm work
Under hot sun & cold rain
Yet I keep doing it over & over

For I know why I'm growing
As it's the only way to a world
Free of tyranny, depression & eternal suffering

So I'll keep growing till my land goes dry
For I need to feed the last man on earth
Give him hope & few seeds to grow.
From the time when I was working in a permaculture farm
Peace escapes me,
immaculate I am not.
Demons plague the darkness,
no light can pierce the rot.

Tyranny needs a foothold
and my soul wholly provided.
All that is left is me,
For I am the Devil in the White City
SuperNova Nov 2019
At the gates of Petal City
Where the winds seem to whisper,
In tongues all too familiar
Knocking just behind your ears

Since the summer they've been louder,
Voices creeping into walls,
Making our sky darker,
And crying out a fog

Between their walls, in shrouded pain,
Defending with their folding shields
It's those who never kneel
For the bear king

They are the knights order
We dream we never have to be
Go HK
Marla Jun 2019
Love and confusion confounding the illusion of trust in a systematic regime which they deny ever existed but constantly promise to improve upon. The hat's shape and color may change, but our inability to exchange their deranged platforms for a stabler form of expression exposes our disillusion with dispossession and our embracing being complacent in the face of our rulers' all-encompassing corruption.
If the truth hurts, revel in its burn.
James LR Nov 2018
Silver sun on basking lakes
where golden ice sits in her throne
Of ice and snow and frosted stone

Rubble red the soil takes
to try and sate Queen Nature's greed
for all above and all beneath

Power can never be slaked
Man and Earth are master's each
Of the mountain and the beach
No wealth outside their reach
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