#1984
'2+2=3'
Go, on say it
Aren't you free?
You must be free.
Your Loving Leader
orders you to be
Love is hate
Hate is love
Whatever He says
Is the reality
'We good, they bad'
'We good, they bad'
'We good, they bad'
Repeat after me
What do you mean
'Yesterday you said a different thing'
I said nothing
You know nothing
This is the first time you're hearing me speak
All prostrate before our great, good leader
Magnificent, omniscient, transcendent leader
He never killed any except
His enemy
He can do no wrong
He sees us all
He loves us all
So he kills them all
It's only for
our benefit
What do you mean
'He's not giving us food'
Come on mate
Don't be silly
You've been fed
4 time today
You just couldn't
Understand it
He's done more good
Than anyone
Before in history
Whatever he says
Is reality
He can alter
History
What do you mean
'He's a dictator'
Don't you remember
You chose him
Democratically
You're free
Say anything
Do anything
Except anything
Improper to Him
We are all equal
He's just more equal
Help him create
The perfect society
"Art" that's evil
"Sports" don't bother
"Science" oh brother
Why do believe in such fantasies
Just follow Him
He'll lead you the promised land
Understand?
'Those men, over there
They are the devils'
You say they're good
No they are not
Now you are irritating Him
We must teach you a lesson
Surrender to Our Leader
He calls you tomorrow
Go, don't be afraid
He won't hurt
He'll just proselyte you lovingly
Oh, those machines of torture
Don't be afraid
THEY ARE JUST FOR YOUR BENEFIT
Today,
At the 19th hour 8th minute and second 4th
We'll have a meeting
To celebrate
His Highness
Don't be late
NOT A SECOND LATE
You wouldn't want to anger Him
Or he'll vaporize you
Lovingly
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 10:00 AM UTC
In the haze of
Cerebral hemispheres
Counting the seconds between
Lightning and thunder
Returning fire
With the same manic glee
As eating ice cream
Right from the carton
Two Minutes Hate
I'm bleeding out like
Notes from underground
That contain secrets
Of the wounded sky
I feel a provoked heaviness like
Manhole covers
Razing cane over
The shoddy infrastructure
Two Minutes Hate
"The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in." - George Orwell, from the novel 'Nineteen Eighty-Four'
~
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 7:55 AM UTC
What is reality?
What is theory?
Sometimes four
Sometimes five
Sometimes both
Of them at once
Control the future
By controlling the past
Listen here, Oceania
War is peace
First, we'll give everything its due
Then say it never happened
Again and again
Until you believe it's true
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 8:07 AM UTC
What did I ever do
to deserve a world where
avocados are underripe while they're overripe,
pens cede before their ink is spent,
rivers run dry, aquifers deplete?
What choice do I have
but to opt out of the technocratic misery,
overlorded by the Slither Circle,
to make my sways of the sun replete?
My country has a Military Complex
that fought wars over bananas.
My country prints Monsters on Money,
a desecrated spell to spill nature's blood
and use it in every commodity:
the ink, the encasements, the coatings,
the stains, the sealants, the wrappers,
even the food and medicine.
What did I do?
I ate. I wrote. I used.
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 9:39 AM UTC
The day was great in the state,
Hurry to your job, dont be late
The Sun was shining
The roses were red
Walls of happiness
Do this, not that, stand up, lie flat
The orders were clear, for every guy
Everything was fine, then one asked why?
Piercing sound, thumping sound
And the Sun was shining, on hopeless faces
The roses were red, from blood
Walls of happiness, segregating classes and races
The state is your new God
And on the corpses of others, that asked why
There he lies, that’s the guy
No need to cry, no need to mourn
His bones build the foundations-
of a New Society Reborn
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 5:19 AM UTC
An Orwellian term
used by self-righteous hypocrites
hiding behind a cloak of morality.
Wake up.
Political correctness controls the narrative
by shaming and suppressing.
It forces upon us
the “one true” ideological orthodoxy.
It eliminates decent and
makes people lie and self-censor their words.
Stand up.
We must allow others to speak
and voice their thoughts.
Some might be stupid,
so let’s expose their faults.
Some might be outrageous,
so let’s pause and defuse.
Some might be hurtful and mean
so let’s self-reflect and steel ourselves.
Speak up.
Political correctness leads to sameness
contrary to the individualism
it pretends to protect.
It is a road into slavery.
First the slavery of your mind
and later slavery of your body.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:46 AM UTC
morning dove
or is it the mourning dove?
speaks this morning
of melancholy
rock and sheep
and a drunken friend
who each night
ended his day
the same
each minute
was nothing I knew
it was the sound of the bells,
around their necks
and from the church.
Above in the abandoned castle,
defenses down
in rooms
open to the sky
looking down
on the village life
the smell of the beach
fish and retsina
the wisteria sheltered agora
I came there
like the gypsies
we never saw
who snuck in at night
took our clothing
off the lines
and potted plants
from the patio,
leaving only what was missing
as evidence
they'd been there
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC
the tune had been haunting
london for weeks past,
but when the lights went out,
they went out fast.
none of us thought
those days would end.
the music would always be there
anytime we needed a friend.
the sweetness of the soprano;
sprinkled over a sultry saxophone;
the steady heartbeat of an upright bass;
titillating trumpets tooting a tune.
the raven-haired lady: the envy of the room;
the men could only dream
of being so lucky.
the ladies could only scream,
hoping to catch the tall dark stranger's eye.
at the end of the night,
we all sang a whiskey lullaby.
but the wind blew cold-
it made us shiver.
the band packed up their magic.
the soprano ran off with the tall dark stranger.
all alone and without home,
the raven-haired lady blew her mind out,
nowhere left to roam.
nights became weeks and weeks became months.
our throats were perpetually plugged with lumps.
it's hard to say how meaningful it can be-
the touch something can have,
no matter how seemingly arbitrary-
until it is gone with the wind.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
You will not
Cut out my tongue
Until you bury my corpse.
I shall be,
And speak, in freedom,
And shall owe no explanation.
If it comes
To strength and iron,
I'll fall like my ancestors,
Dying in the name of what's right.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
In English,
we’re learning about
Winston and Julia
in 1984, but
it’s 2017
all I want to study is
you.
I want to study less
about the
control and freedom
Big Brother has
and more about
the calculation of your
moves.
I want to study the way
your knuckles could be an
infant’s home, small
hands reaching out
longing for you
or the way the veins in
your arm makes abstract art,
beautiful enough to be showcased
in any gallery.
I understand now why they say
“as pretty as a painting.” Because
you’re as timeless and
breathtaking as
Mona Lisa.
And your blue iris's,
swirl with dark and light
tones with a slight
a golden glint,
I could stare into them for longer
than any
Starry Night.
Maybe,
I’m just better suited to an art class.
I want to learn the primaries
so I can swirl them all together and
get your dark brown hair.
I want to add the most expensive
white, so I can paint the
faint freckles on your nose and
I want to mix blue and red adding water
until the colour is a perfect match
for the faintest birthmark
on your shoulder.
Instead of the History of Russia,
I want to learn the History
of you.
I want to learn what makes you smile
and what makes you cry.
I want to study you,
I use each brush stroke to
perfect your skin,
each pen writes down
notes until
I have a whole book
full of each heartbreak,
so I can learn a lesson
in you.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 8:04 AM UTC
I can hear them. There is not one, but might be hundreds of them lurking behind these rickety wood walls.
He is watching. The party has always been watching. I can control my thoughts. Cogito ergo sum. This is my world, no one can touch me. These are my thoughts, my heart beats for what is good for me. My hands scrawling, my brain is just scribbling.
Yet, I’ve known from the start that I am a dead man.
I didn’t commit adultery, I followed them. I am alive, I can feel my heart racing. My blood all over my body... reminds me why I’m here. To survive and live, yet I am still a dead man.
I am no mute, but I can’t speak. While writing this I can picture my hands and feet with shackles, wounds of torture. I’ve been always a dead man.
The prole doesn’t know. They need to know. They should stop listening or watching the telescreen. They should strive to dig the Oldspeak.
Oh, right. Who dares to doublethink against a totalitarian regime anyway?
The guns are always on their hands. The war is always going. It’s always here. The past... is always here. We don’t see it, but it’s here! There’s nowhere to run or hide, the world tried.
I will be the next unperson, vaporising in the history of Oceania. They won’t remember. They’ll try not to remember. We are a nobody. Winston was right. I can feel the boot stamping on my face. This is the future.
My voice... is a thought crime, will never be accepted in this society.
I am a dead man.
I am ready... the Thought Police has been always watching me. The INGSOC. Big Brother. I will never love him!
But I am ready to be trap in the place where there is no darkness. I am ready... for the Ministry of Love.
I won’t ever, ever love Big Brother!
I do not care, for I am already a dead man!
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
Oldspeak:
Save me from this government,
which envelops the land.
Which doesn't give me freedom,
or help my weary hand.
Newspeak:
I'm saved in Oceania,
which is doublegood; much nonwasted land.
BB unstruggles workers,
BB helps unwear hands.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 4:04 AM UTC
This is a call to Arms
The time for action is now.
Our government is preparing for War
They're building walls and cutting ties
to conquer us they must divide
us from ourselves and from our world
This is a call to Arms
The time for Action is now
The board is set, and we, the Pawns, are all in our place, facing an enemy we are told to defeat,
though they appear to be identical to you and me.
This is a Call to Arms
The time for action is now
We must revolt
Lest we be sacrificed to Kings
To Queens, to Bishops
To the knights of the realm and the castles they call home.
This is a call to Arms
The time for action is now
We must band together to be heard
We will not be cannon fodder
For the frontlines of a culture War
This is a Call to Arms
The time for action is now.
Defeat looms ever closer
The Reckoning draws nigh
Will you stand and deliver
Or will you bow down and submit?
Will you face the coming adversity,
or brave the consequences
should you turn your back to it?
This is a call to arms
They've taken land and sea and air,
Poisoned them to **** us,
and then billed us for the repair.
The enemy surrounds us,
Threatening life and limb and freedom.
Demanding fealty and obedience.
Demanding tribute for the war chest,
And soldiers for the ranks,
Demanding that we pay the cost while they set price.
They want us broken, not just beaten
Only unconditional surrender will suffice
This is a call to Arms
The time for action is now
To chant the castles down
To fortify the streets
Against the tyranny and the hate,
Against powers of subjugation,
Against the evils of the world
now
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
Learning facts in vain,
Tomorrow they will change again,
Life as grey as yesterday,
Living in silence so loud,
Minds as free as they can't be,
Life lived in front of a Telescreen,
What is truth but justified lies?
Evidence never survives.
2+2=1984
Who can be sure
What war is any more?
Free from the dream
of Freedom,
Love despised as lies,
Ignorance hides us,
from hating
our entire lives.
The past is our identity,
It changes every day,
Double-thinking truth and lies,
Takes it out of me.
Where is the world,
From way back when
with sunlight
colour
freedom?
Its been erased from history
along with our privacy.
2+2=1984
Who can be sure
what war is any more?
Free from the dream
of freedom
love despised
as lies
Ignorance hides us
from hating
our entire lives
Who thought that
love could spring
like this?
Moss between the cracks
Colour
in a grey scale world
to make
my heart beat fast
hidden
in the broken places
once
so set in stone
fragile secrets
like our lives
one breath to make
them break
Found
in the night
In Desire's claws
Trapped
By
Love
2+2=1984
who can be sure
what war is any more?
Free from the dream
of freedom
Love despised
as lies
Ignorance hides us
from hating
our entire lives
Where is the freedom
we fought for?
Where are the rewards?
There are no
Martyrs
Only the
Missing
Hidden
In their jaws
Where am I?
I don't really know
**wrapped
in the trap
of love**
remembering days
of passion
but no
that was not
love
My bones
are weary
My heart
is bent
My spirit
is broken
My love
is spent
My trap
My one
My love
Betrayed
By
Fear
2+2=1984
I am dust
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
And not enough stars.
The streets are like arteries behind your eyes,
they can now see all.
Young geeks familiar with computer speak, sit in rooms
of control and the troll to make traffic better, with the
help and dreams, sky high and sky eyes, I feel more secure.
maybe...
Do you need attention,
what is your intention,
on main street thoroughfare,
tell'em all watching life ain't fair
rage at the sky above
with gestures, not love
sirens buzzing your direction
show your best side, get bolder get braver
no pictures, you didn't sign the waiver
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
All 'the Man' has to do
is get the ball rolling:
we'll handle the rest.
That's the grotesque beauty of it.
That's why we're called a System.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
as a lock i am content.
smooth metallic surface skin
(perfect shiny smooth so i smile)
mechanics behind eyes
mouths hands ankles
special functions each. i feel
content with my place, i feel
satisfied with my perceptions,
i am fulfilling my
daily roles, my existence
is justified, i feel physically
full – not from the stomach but from
the guts, not with food but with
blood like a rush-reaction
heating up, flushing red
like my lips after what we did
on my bed on saturday
(always slightly on edge with our
programmed satellite ears extended out
in case some innocent wandered in)
everything in its right place
my plodding daily satisfaction
(to satisfy mysthesystemelf)
no happy hours but happy days,
healthy children, healthy lifestyle
feeling pure and therefore proper
and therefore all is well.
i repeat. all is well.
i woke up today turned on
the coffee giant poured a cup,
drank the tar pleasantly surprised
by a peck on the cheek from my
husband_ kids sent off to school_
stayed at home all day_ husband
off to work_ came home, he came home_
i had a lovely day, thank you,
obligatory post-dinner ***
and
as a lock i am content.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
A fine kid raised
in the thoughts of everybody around
applying to the norm
forged in wise conformity
Body and soul
resonating
by the coldness spoken
with your heart-warming voice
Creation abandoning
words become worlds
deforming reality
inside and outside your mind
Do as you please, fine kid
'cause justified your actions are
within the peace of your heart
and the ignorance in your soul
Education as weapon
in a war behind your eyes
freedom achieved
by awakening yourself
Fighting prohibited
fleeing futile
as truth lies when lies come true
will you transcend?
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
Sterling eyes close the falling red ward
Big Brother has seen it all
He tells me: *there is danger
Terror past the massive, all-protecting Atlantic*
Don’t stray there, the mouth
of stumbling heads say,
They want to take away
Our safety, our ways, our Freedom
Mr. Elected reassures
*Nothing will harm you
Not with me going there
I don’t want you going there*
He speaks like my mom
Warning me of the illicits
I am too vulnerable to experience
It’s death I’ll go to- I’ve been told
Sleepless red monocular
Enlightening the air to a passive blue
It’s opacity beneath and above
Ascending again
Mama and Baba say it’s time to go home
I confront the arid peninsula of Qatar
Lungs accustomed, vitality not frozen
Precariously perceiving the harmful
Sentiments of years past in Jordan,
I wonder why
my kin would ban this place
Rumor on dirt pavement in a draft, ears picking up
*The Atlantic is not to be crossed,
A lack of morals, malintentions
lay beyond the scape.*
Extravagant grenade above,
Falling to the horizon
And no detonation, collapsing behind a curved veil
Skyward lay the remnants
Of heat, frozen in time
The lips in a box on this shoreside
Warn *the zephyrs from the ornery
Reaches towards our home
Be on guard of the deceitful
star at night that rains red*
Tomorrow may not be there
My blood brothers of Lebanon say,
But I wait, field of vision
aligned to the east
Aural stumbles translate, articulating
My brethren begin their search of food
And in too many moments unnoticed,
Black on bottom, red on the low, blue slowly suffocating the obscurity above
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
I am watching you,
every step, every breath, every word and touch.
yet still I keep a sense of certitude -
that you may believe you have befriended me.
I am a television, a mirror, a frame in your home,
I am a friend you can trust.
I am a child playing swing,
I am the woman you sneak around with,
I am the unexpected friend you trust,
Yet I am the one who snitches on you when we part.
Trust me, you'll think we’ve never met.
Yet when we do, oh man , you’ll know it.
For in the oddest of times, well catch you, grab you,stop you still - Until you cry out, BIG BROTHER , I .. - ....Confess.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC