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John H Dillinger Apr 2020
But it's all crazy, all this neo-fascist **** lately.
I guess populism's got a catchy rhythm,
if your lazy,
then it's so much harder to love me or debate me
than hate me.
Now, let's dispose of this safely: you're racist

because, either your daddy was too,
or, you're manipulated by falsehoods masquerading as news
but it's true, now, even I'm getting confused,
but ask, who the **** wins? because you AND the immigrant lose.

This ****'s got polemic, pulled by extremist views,
taking the meanest cues,
we contravene abuse, on the daily.
It's all so ****** up lately.
I guess it's so much harder to love me than hate me.


But the day will come, I'll be classed as crazy, man,
already feeling like I'm William Blake's Grain of Sand,
Eternity in an hour, in the palm of my hand,
I see the white ******* walls in the back of the van.

Because they'll nab you from the streets, it's the master's plan,
until all that's left is sheep, the rest bottled and canned,
then, they'll sit inside their keep, every gun-post manned,
their delight, so sweet, but never to understand:

Heaven in a wildflower or the Endless Night,
a reason to die or a reason to fight.
In their sweet delight, they won't see the light,
But from the Endless Night, you & me just might

because each glimmer shines out in the darkest depth,
as Blake writes revenge from the realms of Death,
those protected on high, Nations that sell & buy,
can all be blown out by a baby's breath.


'Cause only the blood in a diamond means it's not worthless,
the value we imprint are just absurd curses.
We all know what's hidden there, under the surface,
so, who teaches us acceptance and what's it's purpose?

We're all in it together, we're all complicit,
our lives connected by this something illicit.
Adopted by the collective notion, we choose to forgive it
and perpetuate it's frameworks, instead of letting them diminish.

Alright, let's have a break. Drink some response a bil i tea,
marinate in what's around us and all the things we neglect to see.
Where have we been looking and why do we think we're free?
Calm down and carry on? **** na, that aint me!

But in revolution, don't we just come back to the beginning?
Spinnin' round and round, in a ******' hellfire rythmn;
it's enough to leave you questioning each and all decisions,
or, just **** it all, sit back and watch the visions.


Like a pig to thunder: all big eyes and wonder -
As our world comes crashing down, ripped and torn asunder -
we won't get very far with all our property and plunder,
what would William say then, I wonder?

Some are born to Endless Night, but then, it all flies apart,
leaving my rhyming heart to aim and find it's mark.
It's my one sight of light in the deepest dark,
so, if you hold to me now, we just need a spark.
reboot of my last poem, nearly there with just a little more editing, I think.

would love any advice, comments or help with it. what are communities for?
John H Dillinger Mar 2020
But it's all crazy, all this neo-fascist **** lately.
I guess populism's got a catchy rhythm,
if your lazy,
then it's so much harder to love me or debate me
than hate me.
Now, let's dispose of this safely: you're racist

because either your daddy was too
or you're manipulated by falsehoods masquerading as news
but it's true, now even I'm getting confused,
but ask, who the **** wins? because you AND the immigrant lose.

This ****'s got polemic, pulled by extremist views,
taking the meanest cues,
we contravene abuse, on the daily.
It's all so ****** up lately.
I guess it's so much harder to love me than hate me.

Then, the wicked beat breaks & it all flies apart
leaving my rhyming heart to aim and find it's mark -
it's my one sight of light in the deepest dark
'n' if ya hold to me now, we just need a spark.


The day will come, I'll be called crazy, man,
feeling like I'm William Blake's Grain of Sand,
Eternity in an hour, in the palm of my hand,
I see the white ******* walls in the back of the van.

We'll be nabbed from the streets, it's the master's plan,
'til all that's left is sheep, the rest bottled and canned,
then, they'll sit inside their keep, every gun-post manned,
their delight, so sweet, never to understand:

Heaven in a wildflower or the Endless Night,
a reason to die or a reason to fight.
In their sweet delight they won't see the light,
But in the Endless Night, you & me just might

because each glimmer shines out in the darkest depth,
as Blake writes revenge from the realms of Death,
those protected on high, Nations that sell & buy,
can all be blown out by a baby's breath.
idiosyncratic political rap - read it out loud and feel the fire.
Irena Adler Nov 2018
Master, master, master of Fire,
Bring me luck, bring me freshness
Bring me strength .
Bring me freshness
Bring me strength
Bring me desire...
The wheel to fire!


You left me here
You walked away
You betrayed me
You ****** me away!...


Master, master, master of None,
A ghost from the past...
Ghost, ghost ghost... Ha, ha, ha...
My life is your desire!

Your desire is Fire.
Mine is Water!


I came here to bring
some warm sand,
cold tea, cigarettes,
bad coffee but,
my Dear Enemy?! ...
" What' s your Desire?"

You left me here,
You walked away!
You betrayed me, thee ...


              BUT!


My Dearest Enemy,
Have you no more legs to walk,
Hands to "TALK"?


           Because,

You're a ghost...


           So,

If this is a SUPREME WORLD
then why CANNOT I find REASON
on this COLD SEASON.


Awake me !
Shake me!
Stimulate me
but PLEASE
don't hate me!


I cannot LEAVE
this LIFE anymore


               So,


If you jump,
I jump!
If you become bird,
I'll learn to fly too!

And if you die...
I'll become a GHOST!




Forgiven,
Not Forgotten,
Au revoir
Dovidjenja
Buon viaggio!






With love
Irena Adler
Wheel/ will
Leave/ Live
Wanna tygerskinrug tymemachine
for non-tragic carpet ryde
'cross the meltin' clock stream.
Rhynestone tymelyne HG couldn't prophesy,
one where Milton Keynes is the new New Orleans.

Some of us can't get over
how much we ****** at being 17.
Send myself back a Kyle Reese shrink,
preshrink tiger sniffles of spleen.

Sow wyld paradoxes, flog dead groundhogses.
Marty & the Doc
patsies for end of days.
I'll elbow Al, selfish Sam Beckett.
Scream will the butterfly effect afflicted.

Some of us can't get over
how much we ****** at being 17.
Send myself back a Kyle Reese shrink,
redestine kitten smithereens.

Shades of grey of history
frame our immortal sinchronicity
for a cryme: tyger strypes of tyme!

Ret-connaissance, chrono camo,
crossroads where Norwich
'came 2nd Seattle:
tyger strypes of tyme
burning bryte on tyme!

Ret-connaissance, chrono camo,
in the forests
of the snooze button
burning bryte on tyme!
Tyger strypes of tyme!
I'm not manly or crafty enough to man up
& be craftsman of TLC you deserve.
A ****-nician of THC, like a Zyklon bidet
my exsufflation shafts your nerves.
But O Dark Cow up the **** w/ me,
couldn't my pissy poesy be yr
stroppeyote,
yr mephistoffee poppy,
e'en tho'
it's frowie faust flora & Daltonism's Rose?

These drab bayleavings are my horseshoe headgear
of Ishihara voyelles.
No reams o' mine boa-blent
so consummately to acoustics
of quinqcolour corolla
as Arthur's rainbow of assonance.
No:  no arch archy branch
of prismatic natter natty as prisms;
no pipecleaner petals which festoonophone
photic rootlessness 'pon a chromatocrooned
circumflex; nor mostexquisite
spectrographicanalysis (of Phlegathonic rapids' gases)
curved w/ bootivicious elan along the rhyme-bough,
as if a beauty on a rack on rewind. No,

Dark Cow
who it does not suit to be so dark,
not like satanicmillsheened,
collierycoated guidedogs of David Blunkett,
you're gonna havta slumit
in my 7th Tunket, where a rainbow is a lamebow,
&  the poet's at pyrite bottom of his *** of gold.
Best I can do for you is:

a Jospeh's kaliedocoat hanging garden of flyover,
or God's technicolour handlebar tash
when the Sun came out for 'Pride'
(hi-viz fiesta for velvetferrets & chutneydrinkers,
& ****** Craddock & ****** Devito
&... Him? Her? Draggy tran
twin for botoxbutchered Kim  Kardashian,
& Tran-ye West strumming a tranjo.
An' an am dram trans man
who used to be a woman in the wounded's white van,
wailing that she didn't wanna whannie).

Now, I'm cishet,
but as a poet,
it's often assumed, yunno,
I'm **** or atleast stye.
whannie = childhood East Anglian slang for vajajay, *******, ****, ****, ******, the pink bat's face.
Unused Quill Jul 2014
The Tyger that was burning bright,
Came down to seek an opponent to fight.
When he stumbled across a grassy field,
In order to see what opponents it would yield.

After hours of searching he found a little lamb,
Not quite the opponent that was part of his plan.
He challenged the innocent lamb to battle,
After all Tyger had defeated large great cattle.

The lamb got up and said this was a mistake,
We were both created by old William Blake.
To fight you would be to fight my brother,
I suggest peace and love for one another.

And so something strange happened that day,
Two different songs came together in a way.
One of Innocence and Experience,
A new song born from both - Existence.
An Ode to Blake
maggie W May 2014
you are the hottest summer day

it is your tie that makes you sweat in May

They say it is too hot in here

But for me it’s moderate

You said you love William Blake

But that’s too hard for me to understand

And you could sing me a serenade

But you could never love me back.

His brows spread like hawked in Sierra

His eyes streams like river

He glows like sun in Arizona

Sorry for my poor metaphor

What if I could write for you

The sweetest poems you’ve ever read

It won’t make any big difference

Sorry for my sad attempt

Now that you have made up your mind

You tell me that I’m unteachable

And I could recite you William Blake

But you could never love me back
This is my parody version of All my Little Words by The Magnetic Fields

— The End —