The fonterrorists will go elsewhere
The big boy powers always find a small dot far away from their large splodge
To check and wreck havoc to
It’s got to be far far enough away that if you can smell the smoke,
It’s faint enough that you could mistake it for incense
Or your might twitch your nose
Turn your head and say
Is someone smoking?
It smells like someone is smoking?

When the water is more shit than water
When it is only dry, desitutte,
eroded wasted uselessness,
The fonterrorists will go elsewhere
Somewhere with more utility.

I spoke to this man I met on the street and he told me that while he was on holiday he met a very guilt ridden man who was working for fonterra (read: fonterror) and he told me that they were already laying the plans to move on from colonised Aotearoa once it is all wasted.

maybe I could love
another
if I could only
open the door
perhaps I could have
this feeling
if only I would
stop this war

shards of darkness
criss-cross
through cracks of light
streaming down
into my mind,
leaking into hollows
all nicely wrapped up in skin
and all the things
that live in my dreams
have grown so paper thin

maybe I could heal
this illness
if only I would
set it free
perhaps I could hold
this heart
if only I had
stronger hands
and surer feet

I dont think she remembers why she came.

Why she is a different person, when it rains.

When everything began, before she knew her name.
Before this creature, she became.

With the thickening Fogg and Desolate Rain; she grip's her cloak and follow's her pain.

Her lifeless eyes lead her astray, as her feet trip over one another before two others came.

She made her way into a clearing and silence she regains.

The dark purple skies reveal a shape of blame and into her form she became.

Her sense's heightened like a catalyst, her intentions were vague. Inside her heart was filled with rage.

She made her way into town, devouring all that stood in her way.

Her blood shot eyes could see for miles. Her smell was refrain.

But unto others she would look the same until her mistakes began to leave a trail from which she became.

They gathered in many, they carried they're pitch forks and Stakes but nothing would kill her and she would eventually get away.

Leaving the town in fear, she made away. She layed low for year's until one mysterious day.

A weary traveler stumbled across her home fatigued. Riddled with torment, the man lay waste.

Her heart poured for the man and so she decided to let him stay.

She catered to his wounds and she fed him each day.
He then returned to health and asked for her Name.

She barried her head, she did not say.

The man so thankful for her help; he decided to stay and pay back the woman who had no name.

He did not remember from which he came, this weary Traveler also had no name.

He promised that he would do anything for her to let him stay.

She gathered his stuff and pushed him away.
She shut him out when it started to rain.

The man confused inside but determined for change.
He decided he would go into town and return with necessary things.

As he returned there was a beast at her door. In a panic he grabbed a rock but The beast instincts much quicker than his own. The strength of ten men charged him down to the ground.

This beast would not take his life all at once.

The man remembered in that very moment from in which he Came.

But he still loved her, So he pursued her any way.

The beast then Struck him down. This time oblivious in rage.

She tore him limb from limb but Realizing was half of her Pain.

The other part of her enjoyed it and so she continued to slay.

I dont think she remembers from which she became. Her lifeless eyes that lead her astray.

Her feet fall over one another before two others came.

-RSC

Werewolves have no love life

At 8:56pm my life would be changed forever more
When the German soldiers knocked upon my door
I would be taken to who knows where
These German soldiers did not seem to care

Outside a truck was waiting on this cold winter's night
Hundreds of Jews  huddled together was not a pretty sight
Each of us speaking not knowing what to do
Looking for an answer and looking for a clue

Then what seemed forever we arrived at our destination
We all got off at Auschwitz station
More trucks and soldiers greeted us there
Again the soldiers did not seem to care

The history books will show what fate had in store
At 8.56pm my life would be changed forever more

The horrors of being a Jew in WW2

Don't move a muscle.
The pen's to my head.
Just one click, and I'll spill it all, I swear!
Then you'll all be sorry!
All your secrets, all your stories,
all your regrets, all your mistakes,
I've kept them all!
I was there, don't you remember?
Of course not!
You forgot me the moment I walked through the door.
Payback is a motherfucker ain't it.
HAHAHAHA
The Quiet Child, the Little Loser, the Pretty Boy, the Baby Face,
the Freak, the Creep, the Weirdo, the Dork,
He's back, and boy, is he angry!
How did you not see this coming?!
Of course, you wrote me off,
of course you saw nothing,
you were blind,
blinded by selfishness, and greed, and lust,
bet you see me now!
Bet you tell them you knew me now!
Bet you drop my name now!
But I am nothing to you,
just like I was nothing then.
Then I was just a shy little loser,
now I'm just a memory.
Part of this is your fault,
you, like so many,
saw me as so little,
and when enough people think you worthless?
Guess what? You start to believe it.
Who would of thought?
Thanks for that.
Oh yes, I'm talking to YOU.
You thought I forgot?
I remember everything.
I saw and heard everything.
And I use to be such a nice boy...
I never asked for ANY of this
I asked for happiness...
HOW DARE I
What a fool to wish for happiness.
Or friendship,
or trust, or love,
what a fool to wish for such things.
That's what people like you always told me.
I am what the world made me.
People like you are to blame for this,
this monster on top of the bed.
this maniac with a vengeance,
this creature with a thousand personalities,
This is all your fault.
Remember that.
When they stand at my grave,
the thousands of little monsters like me,
you stand at that podium,
and you fucking tell them.
"I did this."
It's the least you can do for me.
Then you can tell them you're a part of my story.
Right now, you're a piece of torn paper stuck in one of the pages,
a shitty bookmark on page 9, or 17,
an old grocery list with a booger on it.
Whenever the Hell you came and went,
such an insignificant part of my life,
I don't even remember anymore.
OH WAIT, yes I do!
I just say that to make you feel little now.
Now I'm the one pointing fingers,
except I have a right to do so.
Oh no, we're still friends,
just now you know the truth,
the truth I've always known.
That you were fake,
fake as the friendship you threw at me,
fake as the smile you started with every evening.
Now you know I was the real one.
Now you know I'm as evil as you were.
Except I hate myself for it.

Kyle D>

A case filled with trinkets,
Of times long past,
Twinkling twilight,
Of nights faded away,
If they could speak,
Mayhaps they would,
The watches and broaches,
Sit silently in this place,
Trapped inside a solemn case,
Whispering tales,
Of things gone by.

The only note I took from yesterdays class was “the western governments failed to do anything about it” and that really drove home for me how transferable and different yet identical ongoing war is. WW1, WW2, Iraq, the syrian war.

I don’t know where poetry sits in all this. I think poetry without action is like theory without praxis so I to an extent I don’t really care what poetry is or should be in regards to war. There is a limit to what the written word can do in terms of changes the course of things and influencing people, it’s not nothing but it’s also not enough. The recognition of the limitation or inadequacy of the written or spoken word is demonstrated in how many poets are activists, they know speaking or writing alone is not enough.

I think poetry can be fuel, nourishing, provoking but then it’s like what are you gunna do about it? Western politics, particularly liberalism seems to have gotten it’s wires crossed somewhere along the line and some people seem to believe that talking about and reading about things is enough, that think pieces can actually change things and help people in of themselves.

I think the most poetry can be is a starting point, a seed, but what are you gonna do to grow it further?

I think poetry can be a call to action, and a call to action shouldn’t be read as a metaphor, take it literally and answer the call.

We'll be ok
There's smoke
The skin burns
We'll be ok
There's a voice raving
The words burn
We'll be ok
Boots are marching
The elderly roll six feet under
We'll be ok
They wonder: why did you forget?
We didn't forget war we wanted it
We'll be ok
He raves
War war war war war war
We'll be ok
The boots march in tandem
And disappear
We'll be ok
The elderly roll six feet under
They wonder: Didn't we fight for your peace?
We'll be ok
We didn't forget war, we wanted it

I helped old Albert to his room
and he softy said:
sit a while,
I want to tell you something
I’ve told no one before.

So I sat in the chair
by his bed.

Mud, you would
never believe
the amount of mud;
bomb craters big and deep
filled with dirty;
men drowned in them
if they slipped off the boards
especially at night.

My friend Charlie
died like that:
wandered off and slipped
and drowned.
Knee high in places
and deeper in others.

Young men fresh out
to the Front
cried out when dying
for their mothers;
waiting to go over the top
when the whistle blew
you knew it was them or you.

He paused and stared at me
with glassy eyes.

Beyond the news
they broadcast home
was the dark reality of hell;
rats, lice, mud and blood
and dead mens' eyes and limbs
or bodies lying out in No Man's Land.

O yes, sometimes we sat
and smoked, laughed and joked,
thought of home and fire sides
and the girls we left behind;
but always the War
was on your mind.

AN OLD SOLDIER RELATES TO A YOUNG MAN OF WAR IN 1917 IN 1969.

I went to war at the age of 22
Not sure of what I was going to do
Kill or be killed my sergeant said
And I didn't want to end up by being dead
Sorry I killed your daddy

My 23rd birthday and I was given a gun
Kill the enemy or be killed my son
So I was left with no choice but to kill
As my fellow comrades and I went over that hill
Sorry I killed your daddy

Your daddy was in the same position as me I'm sure
Not a pleasant way to die at the age of 24
Little child please don't weep
As you settle off to sleep
Sorry I killed your daddy

The reality of war
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