#communist
Talk to me
Make me believe your socialist ideals
Socialize with me
I'll tell you of my communist ideas.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 9:57 PM UTC
No need to work at all,
Free, equal housing for one and all,
Free healthcare facilities.
Free education,
Free food,
Free amenities.
Equal rights to everyone,
Welfare pension for all,
Economic equality too,
Huge ethnic variety as well,
The only guns possessed by law enforcement.
Surely, a good prison is
The Communist Utopia!
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
Farc chica
de Vene
is velvet
scripture but
a muskrat
that's amore
she's made
for lunch
where canta
is sweet
for laughing
while the
bossa nova
teri was
poolside for
the Quakers
of Mohave
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
in the
shoulder of
this bag
she made
declare her
notes of
cancer with
praesidium that
Riviera toll
earth as
skoal of
her combine
shoot pool
now jake
of school
lack luster
in environment
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 10:16 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Gotta wipe off the seat , sanitation is key,
Squeaky clean future if you make it soon,
Skipping that class in the bathroom,
Be on the phone in the bathroom,
Taking those pills in the bathroom,
Ladies look good in the bathroom,
Not that I spy on the girls room,
Teenagers have *** in the bathroom,
Pick on other kids in the bathroom,
Gather bearings in the bathroom,
Gotta wipe off the seat , sanitation is key,
Squeaky clean future if you make it soon,
Treasures , treasures , they fill the hearts of these people,
Disguised as greed,
It never ends , there are still more sequels,
Pushing and pulling emotions and boundaries,
Can't be weak in this world ,set in every country,
**** on the government in the bathroom.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
What’s a big bowl
But a midget’s boat
And what is peace
To a Jamnapari goat
Everything is relative
Said Leon Trotsky
But he was a raging communist
So he can rot in hell-ski
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
A man with the people's good at heart
And self inflicted gun shots from an AK-47
Lay dead in the palace of currency
American funded bombs drop overhead
Radio waves shiver through the air
Carrying his final words
Let not his sacrifice be in vain
Let us repair and rebuild avenues across which great men and women will walk
¡Viva Chile!
¡Viva el pueblo!
¡Viva los trbajadores!
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
_______
I
_______
*I walked with my communist looking blanket tied around my neck,
I had long ago stolen them from an airoplane and like then,
they still did everything you wouldn't expect from a thin blanket.
getting prung and pricked as the buckberry bushes punctured,
me and my communist looking blanket, but atlass I made it,
torn by thorns and all, to the half iced over ****** dam,*
_______
II
_______
*this is where I was greeted not by my friends, as they happened to be there,
No, I was greeted warmly by the fire they made,
as they burned detention slips, and failed tests, and anything alike,
it made me take fire 101 control of things, as I spit out,
you can not put wet leaves in this fire, stay ten feet away from the fire,
but it would soon be done,*
_______
III
_______
*when it was, we broke up some of the remaining ice from the dam,
placing it on top of the fire as gracefully as you could,
my fingers were once so warmed by that fire, now so cold from the ice,
we went and sat on the rock, and I wrapped my communist blanket around me,
I went into my bag, and pulled out my sock that had my bogs inside it,
I never like to smoke with people, I never really smoked more then two drags*
_______
IV
_______
*when I needed to let my edge off, I smoked, and it was a rare thing I did,
under my communist blanket, with ice cold hands I unwrapped my sock,
I pulled out my new pack of spirits and my lighter, and offered anyone with me a bog.
Everyone but one of my friends took me up on it, so I told him,
he can have the rest of what I don't smoke, I only smoke two hits,
I put the bog in between my middle finger and my ring finger on my right hand,
I couldn't lite it with the wind, I said,
but, it's because people were there.
He lit my bog for me, I smoked more then I normally do and handed it off,*
_______
V
_______
*What was to come soon after was what one,
wishes they could escape to there bedroom with their communist blanket,
and then cry,
he finished what he wanted on the bog,
leaving me with a little more then half,
I put it out and put it away,
my other two friends pulled out a bog each of their own,
as I began to pick up all the little pieces of paper that didn't burn,
I threw them with my ice cold hands into the dam,*
_______
VI
_______
*by then they were almost done with there bogs, when one asked me,
"Can I try to burn your arm?"
as she stuck her bog in her mouth before I could respond,
she went into my communist red blanket, and pulled my arm out,
hold my arm with one hand, she took the bog in the other pressing it lightly,
She asked me "does it hurt?" I muttered "no" still shocked,
She went and did it again, this time higher up while twisting it in,
next to a set of new burns I had done myself a few night back,
I didn't even feel what she did, but she went through a layer of skin,*
_______
VII
_______
*her and the other girl, proceeded to try to lightly burn themselves,
a half a second touch on the top of the arm, that's what hurt more.
I looked at my friend, and he looked really confused, I was too.
I went into the iced over pond, and pulled out ice,
trying to get the ash out of my arm,
only causing my fingers to freeze more under my communist blanket,*
_______
VIII
_______
*I was unable to continue watching them play around and burn their flesh,
I walked back up, and said I need to be alone,
and I never made myself feel more alone under my communist blanket.
I know it was my fault, for I had let her do it,
I didn't dare say stop, but then they did it to themselves.
why couldn't me of been enough?*
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
☠☭☠☭☠☭☠
I ask you righteous Justice-lovers:
can it be that art uncovers
fiction passed as fact?
(is Cubism abstract?)
Behold the Caribbean glory –
pass the **** – uh, torch. My story
cries for sober ears
to modulate our fears.
Ask the ones who fled that island
why they left their tropic homeland;
if they think it’s cool
to glorify Red rule…
The noble face of Revolution,
CHE provides the cheap solution;
earnest young Ernesto
lived out the manifesto.
Martial hippie, beatnik butcher
bravely gazing toward the future
beams the brow of CHE
their shining knight of day.
Brand-new bloodshed – same old song
for guerrilleros of the ****
who rage against machines
confounding ends with means.
Such semi-informed fools display
a heady ignorance of CHE –
as if he played the bass.
(I hold them in disgrace.)
Though CHE was tough on Rock n’Rollers,
he abetted thought controllers;
jailing small and great
in Fidel’s prison-state.
Yet they’re convinced that CHE was righteous:
militant against injustice –
worshiping his name,
impervious to blame.
“Yo, CHE wuz for the PEOPLE, man.
(They’re not too sure about his plan…)
He died to make men free –
immortal – isn’t he?”
Vaguely Leftist youth display him,
not quite clear on how to play him –
Bearded god of Vision:
immune to all derision.
Ahem. A different Bearded One,
God’s other revolutionary son
borrowed from CHE – or stole
The liberator’s role…
Yet, let us not be blown off-course.
My words must gather rising force
to set the record straight
and hotter heads deflate.
The hairy Argentinian medic
left a lucrative esthetic:
****** meme of war –
his T-shirts rock the store!
Outworn by posing poetasters,
dreamers, thugs and hero-wasters
ignorant of history
and high on Marxist mystery.
He glowers with a lit cigar:
the noble hippie Commie/czar
for kids who went to Kollege
emerging void of knowledge.
Now hailed by rappers, clueless starlets
Hollywood saints (and leftist harlots);
everyone’s a fan
of Cuba’s Magic Man.
What was his plan to save the nation?
Proletarian dictation!
Eliminating classes
while kissing Party *****
Classic Leftist liquidation:
bathe the land in blood. Salvation
comes much later on.
For now let’s get it on !
(Let’s get his T-shirt on that is.
The taste is flatter than the fizz
of Revolution Cola;
go ask the Ayatollah).
One serious thing I beg of you.
Do NOT discern the truth. Just view
his face with pure devotion
to set it all in motion.
CHE was a merciless father-mucker
(translate THAT to Spanish, sucker).
Put away your ****
My poem’s too long
(thus ends the song).
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
The bricks of the human world are dying.
Others are being born as we speak,
But others still are dying
And the world is dying and changing with them.
Some are dying in bleachy hospital rooms
With blood-smeared hands,
But others are not.
The world is dying in fields
With a back lain-upon by fresh harvest,
Hands caked in loam
And a face creased by sun.
The world is dying in factories,
Gazing its brains out through the smog
And over clamorous machinery,
Bleeding tears into cheap t-shirts.
The world is dying in offices,
Dreams pulled out and splayed about
Like a salmon's innards
Upon the printer-paper butcher board.
The world is dying at sea,
With salt-crusted hair
And burning, split calluses,
Beety droplets staining the passive blue.
The world dies in death:
In rusty mill bones
And hollow farms
Rented out to memories.
The world is dying,
And where is the ceremony?
Where is the procession?
Where is the twenty-one gun salute?
The world goes into many graves
Packaged in a homemade box,
With Duty fulfilled
And not a single note of "Taps".
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC