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#marxism
Sir Marx, if your time now may leisure be, to lend thy ears, a breath of time to me, I, a boy of three less than a mere twenties, have written an appeal for commons to unite, if worthy may you assume, shall I present it to thee? —in parts of three, where the first, being meant for vulcan borned - must heat and red devour on dark, whilst ferrum's fuelled with rage? must the flames bloom amidst the sky, whilst we feed the furnace coal? Achtung ! Dichtung , the song of steel may fill the forging halls, Schreien und die in agony, ductile-brittle **** Come fourth lest quench the iron's yen, lest it strengthen to core, And forge with pride and wit along, the tools of our fight, A crescent for hands who grant the grain, A hammer to pound our blade ! you've read the hammer now, and if eager still ye be, here cometh the second prose, let this our sickle be - Reapeth the withered with a tear laden cheek, plucketh the ripe with a laugh of pride, his own lass , would daughter second be known, such care he hath cherished , for the soil and its sown. from the foul of weather-weed, to the stare of corvid eyes, canst he protect and flourish his land, but gets stabbed by a dagger , of the papers he signed, with the count, with the lender , with the crown , with the dealer. if the first was a fire, and second, a pool of tears, the third shall be a wick for a rebel, without fears - but behold ! let not the tears wash the scars away, let them unite to set a fire ablaze, to stand tall, and ask with a soul piercing gaze, Doth the stack of coins make nobles gouge their eyes? for they weep o'er wilting of some silly red rose, yet laugh when their policies break the spine of a town, shouldn't we make a torch, to make such blinds see, or a blast perhaps, to make them deafs hear, That their paper, like termites , hollow not just the order, But the pillars as well, that makes the stage of world stand?
0
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 8:17 AM UTC
OneIII
Of Iron, Grain, and Fire
Sir Marx, if your time now may leisure be, to lend thy ears, a breath of time to me, I, a boy of three less than a mere twenties, have written an appeal for commons to unite, if worthy may you assume, shall I present it to thee? —in parts of three, where the first, being meant for vulcan borned - must heat and red devour on dark, whilst ferrum's fuelled with rage? must the flames bloom amidst the sky, whilst we feed the furnace coal? Achtung ! Dichtung , the song of steel may fill the forging halls, Schreien und die in agony, ductile-brittle **** Come fourth lest quench the iron's yen, lest it strengthen to core, And forge with pride and wit along, the tools of our fight, A crescent for hands who grant the grain, A hammer to pound our blade ! you've read the hammer now, and if eager still ye be, here cometh the second prose, let this our sickle be - Reapeth the withered with a tear laden cheek, plucketh the ripe with a laugh of pride, his own lass , would daughter second be known, such care he hath cherished , for the soil and its sown. from the foul of weather-weed, to the stare of corvid eyes, canst he protect and flourish his land, but gets stabbed by a dagger , of the papers he signed, with the count, with the lender , with the crown , with the dealer. if the first was a fire, and second, a pool of tears, the third shall be a wick for a rebel, without fears - but behold ! let not the tears wash the scars away, let them unite to set a fire ablaze, to stand tall, and ask with a soul piercing gaze, Doth the stack of coins make nobles gouge their eyes? for they weep o'er wilting of some silly red rose, yet laugh when their policies break the spine of a town, shouldn't we make a torch, to make such blinds see, or a blast perhaps, to make them deafs hear, That their paper, like termites , hollow not just the order, But the pillars as well, that makes the stage of world stand?
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37
2004 felt so far away from 1994 2014 was another world compared to 2004 2024, and it all looks the same Sure, we feel different; scattered, deranged Not knowing who to believe or blame You gave it all to us too fast at once All the movies, music, and TV All the books, articles, and self-help All the DIY guides and platforms to perform We never realized we were not cut out to be the curators and communities all by our lonesome selves in our bedrooms We crumble at the weight of it all, blame ourselves for not achieving dreams like the pretty people on the tiny screen Boomer producer parents spend so much dough to help their kids seem bespoke I'm afraid too many poors got too smart between 2004 and 2014 Too much decent community college, Marxist pdfs, and low down creatives coming together You can't find what you used to in real life, let alone online The 6 rich guys that run the world got scared of too many redneck dads actually liking Bernie Sanders and the new sushi bar downtown People were getting too smart, so they flooded us with slop to get us back to the naïve pissants we were before 9/11, or maybe even before the Industrial Revolution
0
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 6:13 PM UTC
kageysage
Ogling Theta (How Rude of You)
2004 felt so far away from 1994 2014 was another world compared to 2004 2024, and it all looks the same Sure, we feel different; scattered, deranged Not knowing who to believe or blame You gave it all to us too fast at once All the movies, music, and TV All the books, articles, and self-help All the DIY guides and platforms to perform We never realized we were not cut out to be the curators and communities all by our lonesome selves in our bedrooms We crumble at the weight of it all, blame ourselves for not achieving dreams like the pretty people on the tiny screen Boomer producer parents spend so much dough to help their kids seem bespoke I'm afraid too many poors got too smart between 2004 and 2014 Too much decent community college, Marxist pdfs, and low down creatives coming together You can't find what you used to in real life, let alone online The 6 rich guys that run the world got scared of too many redneck dads actually liking Bernie Sanders and the new sushi bar downtown People were getting too smart, so they flooded us with slop to get us back to the naïve pissants we were before 9/11, or maybe even before the Industrial Revolution
Continue reading...
19
Many conspiracy theories get the connections and convolutions right. What they get wrong is the distracting end game, when the truth's so clear. Just look at the results. The rich and powerful always escape culpability, escape punishment. If the evidence proves too blatant, creating nets of legal and PR complexities keep the farce of "justice for all," while maintaining their Old World nobility. Victorian inbreds and mobster charlatans, cutting corners and destroying civic morals, just to grab up more Earth. Soon their cheapness will became ubiquitous. They'll all end up in imploding pleasure submarines, dining on deadly raw foie gras, or barreling off a crumbling bridge in a driverless car.
0
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 11:51 AM UTC
kageysage
Scapegoats for the Blessed
Many conspiracy theories get the connections and convolutions right. What they get wrong is the distracting end game, when the truth's so clear. Just look at the results. The rich and powerful always escape culpability, escape punishment. If the evidence proves too blatant, creating nets of legal and PR complexities keep the farce of "justice for all," while maintaining their Old World nobility. Victorian inbreds and mobster charlatans, cutting corners and destroying civic morals, just to grab up more Earth. Soon their cheapness will became ubiquitous. They'll all end up in imploding pleasure submarines, dining on deadly raw foie gras, or barreling off a crumbling bridge in a driverless car.
Continue reading...
2
How does capitalism deeply impact my life? I want to make music so bad, but I procrastinate with stupid **** I clean as if people could come over anytime and judge me superficially. I often go out and shop for things I futilely hope will organize me enough to make cleaning faster. I shop for obscure musical instruments and gear to feel like it'll make making music easier. In capitalism, owning the machinery is more valuable than doing the work. We ingrain that in our soul, more and more. Negative liberty was always valuable, but when you had less you used to find others to help turn that liberty positive.   I have a guitar, bass, and drums, but no band. Self-alienation at this point. All my friends play, but don't want to make it a thing. Our leaders are just hype men and chaos actors to keep the mystery going. "Capitalism may be cruel, but it's the best system we got." "Capitalism just means people have the right to go into business for themselves." No the owners are subservient to something greater too. They serve capital, they serve the absolution of all. Your automatic answer is "it wasn't my fault." It was incorporated, depersonalized. So many dead and broken people. So much waste. Digging up so much petroleum, the plastic's in our veins. "It's no one's fault." If by some astronomical chance a concerned public win a Kafkaesque trial, all that's lost is money. No one goes to jail or suffers, if you own enough stuff. But there's the pickle. "The things you own start to own you," of course, but what's much worse is the Nothing they serve needs to grow, until there's no humanity left. Becoming voids who only seek more efficient ways to delete.
0
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 11:31 AM UTC
kageysage
Millerites for Singularity
How does capitalism deeply impact my life? I want to make music so bad, but I procrastinate with stupid **** I clean as if people could come over anytime and judge me superficially. I often go out and shop for things I futilely hope will organize me enough to make cleaning faster. I shop for obscure musical instruments and gear to feel like it'll make making music easier. In capitalism, owning the machinery is more valuable than doing the work. We ingrain that in our soul, more and more. Negative liberty was always valuable, but when you had less you used to find others to help turn that liberty positive.   I have a guitar, bass, and drums, but no band. Self-alienation at this point. All my friends play, but don't want to make it a thing. Our leaders are just hype men and chaos actors to keep the mystery going. "Capitalism may be cruel, but it's the best system we got." "Capitalism just means people have the right to go into business for themselves." No the owners are subservient to something greater too. They serve capital, they serve the absolution of all. Your automatic answer is "it wasn't my fault." It was incorporated, depersonalized. So many dead and broken people. So much waste. Digging up so much petroleum, the plastic's in our veins. "It's no one's fault." If by some astronomical chance a concerned public win a Kafkaesque trial, all that's lost is money. No one goes to jail or suffers, if you own enough stuff. But there's the pickle. "The things you own start to own you," of course, but what's much worse is the Nothing they serve needs to grow, until there's no humanity left. Becoming voids who only seek more efficient ways to delete.
Continue reading...
9
I’m shirtless after getting too hot in the best kitchen stool spot It’s where the dog will leave me alone for a sec It’s a weird winter every year now, but they say the Great Lakes are the best place to ride climate change out It’s been too cold, now it’s getting too hot for this time of year so the old Watkins Glen hoodie was too much I almost ripped the front neck like an 80s girl but I didn’t have the strength If walks are still out of the question, I better start doing physical comedy around the house like Three's Company because I said I was going to We could have had it all we still could We reached peak performance we almost reached Star Trek replicators The whole world enjoying life saving advancements over a hundred years Only for it to decline for the first time instead of just sabotaged into a slowdown like before Those billionaires want to stay relevant Even though they’re beyond useless They’re a detriment to our democratic progress just to preserve their status as economic royalists who decry the decline of Victorian social deference Remember Kurt Vonnegut talking about his school in the era of almost proficient public funding? He was excited to have a jazz band Until these types of things were deemed unimportant for those who may need them most Now we have the technology to exceed the speed and competence of the 80s, 90s, and aughts but the the profit motive just gets stronger and more depersonalized We’ll teach them to fish by killing them all
0
Jan 23, 2024
Jan 23, 2024 at 7:23 PM UTC
kageysage
Shirtless in a Northern Town
I’m shirtless after getting too hot in the best kitchen stool spot It’s where the dog will leave me alone for a sec It’s a weird winter every year now, but they say the Great Lakes are the best place to ride climate change out It’s been too cold, now it’s getting too hot for this time of year so the old Watkins Glen hoodie was too much I almost ripped the front neck like an 80s girl but I didn’t have the strength If walks are still out of the question, I better start doing physical comedy around the house like Three's Company because I said I was going to We could have had it all we still could We reached peak performance we almost reached Star Trek replicators The whole world enjoying life saving advancements over a hundred years Only for it to decline for the first time instead of just sabotaged into a slowdown like before Those billionaires want to stay relevant Even though they’re beyond useless They’re a detriment to our democratic progress just to preserve their status as economic royalists who decry the decline of Victorian social deference Remember Kurt Vonnegut talking about his school in the era of almost proficient public funding? He was excited to have a jazz band Until these types of things were deemed unimportant for those who may need them most Now we have the technology to exceed the speed and competence of the 80s, 90s, and aughts but the the profit motive just gets stronger and more depersonalized We’ll teach them to fish by killing them all
Continue reading...
36
Husks of graffiti-covered factories melt into the industrial wasteland like dried-out scarab beetles clinging to the Sphinx. The pioneers who pushed up the buildings might have believed in a limitless potential for the city as they applied a dream tourniquet, then injected their sales pitch into the collective stream-mind: polished rims, leather interior, dual exhaust, the rumble of supercharged hormones awkwardly fumbling with buttons, clasps and zippers in the back seat, while drive-in speakers crackle; the sunset is crimson-cheeked from watching how unashamedly night spreads herself open, showcasing the void between her thighs, and how cold the stars can sometimes seem from a distance. Fate was reflected in the rearview mirrors of cars named after the city's founder, who, 200 years prior, had been called a scoundrel and, "...the most wicked man in the world." The vehicles helped propel mass ambitions   towards highschool romance, employment at the factories, 2.5 children, electric ranges, flamingo lawn ornaments, Sunday drives after church, followed by an afternoon cocktail, two for the Missus; all of it made in America, by Americans, for Americans. Then it stopped. The ghost of that energy can still be felt haunting buildings left hollow by the foreclosures and bankruptcies of cursed business, haunting litter-strewn streets that resemble a shanty found in any nowhereville, anywhere, third world conditions wedged into the first. Do the addicts in the crack-shacks, or the johns who prowl beneath a burned-out neon moon that hangs above a doorway on Clark Avenue, feel the ghost of that energy? Sometimes it is barely discernible as it waits to puncture veins and inject its poison— a redesigned drug made from ancient origins— while motor-music echoes between lithium-grey walls, ears weighed-down   with memories of chrome.
0
Nov 12, 2021
Nov 12, 2021 at 9:55 PM UTC
chris-d-aechtner-1
Chrome
Husks of graffiti-covered factories melt into the industrial wasteland like dried-out scarab beetles clinging to the Sphinx. The pioneers who pushed up the buildings might have believed in a limitless potential for the city as they applied a dream tourniquet, then injected their sales pitch into the collective stream-mind: polished rims, leather interior, dual exhaust, the rumble of supercharged hormones awkwardly fumbling with buttons, clasps and zippers in the back seat, while drive-in speakers crackle; the sunset is crimson-cheeked from watching how unashamedly night spreads herself open, showcasing the void between her thighs, and how cold the stars can sometimes seem from a distance. Fate was reflected in the rearview mirrors of cars named after the city's founder, who, 200 years prior, had been called a scoundrel and, "...the most wicked man in the world." The vehicles helped propel mass ambitions   towards highschool romance, employment at the factories, 2.5 children, electric ranges, flamingo lawn ornaments, Sunday drives after church, followed by an afternoon cocktail, two for the Missus; all of it made in America, by Americans, for Americans. Then it stopped. The ghost of that energy can still be felt haunting buildings left hollow by the foreclosures and bankruptcies of cursed business, haunting litter-strewn streets that resemble a shanty found in any nowhereville, anywhere, third world conditions wedged into the first. Do the addicts in the crack-shacks, or the johns who prowl beneath a burned-out neon moon that hangs above a doorway on Clark Avenue, feel the ghost of that energy? Sometimes it is barely discernible as it waits to puncture veins and inject its poison— a redesigned drug made from ancient origins— while motor-music echoes between lithium-grey walls, ears weighed-down   with memories of chrome.
Continue reading...
40
Learn to write again learn to type right first time in 3 decades of life I want to write closer to when I think speed time, to slow it make it feel like I do more like I was in my teens or early twenties **** these days 3 go by and it feels like one I count my blessings to build confidence Life grows more cruel but I might win if I act like already won Chaos magick, nay we do not speak of it You forgot to pretend to suspend quests for rationality No longer moved by a book or film We conditioned to be unconditioned only to realize we ought to been wistfully in the herd the whole time   We're the Bodhisattvas forestalling enlightenment to get drunk with the butchers after decades of sober high ground We're the over-analyzers lamenting our anachronisms in self-assuring new philosophies Either fully embrace one or drop out of being smart at all the only tolerable choice to start to enjoy life again No, no it's a false dichotomy I want to be the eternal well-wisher no matter the decadent displays The shared dream of a soon to be future We scavenge and defend through pockmarked streets make shelters amid crumbling concrete We forgot how to imagine a secure society Measured expectations and social safety nets they took it all away along with our balanced serotonin I used to get all jazzed up over a library book but now the images promise us much more bliss right around the corner But it never soothes never comes close   We cannot buy the contentment you claimed to offer so we'll get it in collapse We'll be sniped, starved, and deranged but the thought of that life makes us whisper excitedly to ourselves "finally something has happened to me." I, the eternal well-wisher will wag no more fingers at preachers of death Neither will I become them nor pity them
0
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 10:01 PM UTC
kageysage
On the Players of Apocalypse
Learn to write again learn to type right first time in 3 decades of life I want to write closer to when I think speed time, to slow it make it feel like I do more like I was in my teens or early twenties **** these days 3 go by and it feels like one I count my blessings to build confidence Life grows more cruel but I might win if I act like already won Chaos magick, nay we do not speak of it You forgot to pretend to suspend quests for rationality No longer moved by a book or film We conditioned to be unconditioned only to realize we ought to been wistfully in the herd the whole time   We're the Bodhisattvas forestalling enlightenment to get drunk with the butchers after decades of sober high ground We're the over-analyzers lamenting our anachronisms in self-assuring new philosophies Either fully embrace one or drop out of being smart at all the only tolerable choice to start to enjoy life again No, no it's a false dichotomy I want to be the eternal well-wisher no matter the decadent displays The shared dream of a soon to be future We scavenge and defend through pockmarked streets make shelters amid crumbling concrete We forgot how to imagine a secure society Measured expectations and social safety nets they took it all away along with our balanced serotonin I used to get all jazzed up over a library book but now the images promise us much more bliss right around the corner But it never soothes never comes close   We cannot buy the contentment you claimed to offer so we'll get it in collapse We'll be sniped, starved, and deranged but the thought of that life makes us whisper excitedly to ourselves "finally something has happened to me." I, the eternal well-wisher will wag no more fingers at preachers of death Neither will I become them nor pity them
Continue reading...
50
Alas sais y medya na ng umaga nang makauwi si Natividad mula sa bahay ng kanyang amo. Pagkababa n’ya ng maliit na bag na laman ang kanyang cellphone at wallet na merong labin-limang libo at iilang barya ay marahan siyang naglakad tungo sa kwartong tinutulugan ng kanyang tatlong anak. Hinawi niya ang berdeng kurtina at sumilip sa kanyang mga anghel. Babae ang panganay ni Natividad, o di kaya’y Vida. Labindalawang taong gulang na ito at nasa Grade 7 na. Isa sa mga malas na naabutan ng pahirap na K-12 program. Ang gitna naman ay sampung taong gulang na lalaki at mayroong down syndrome. Special child ang tawag nila sa batang tulad nito, pero “abnormal” o “abno” naman ang ipinalayaw ng mga lasinggero sa kanila. Ang bunso naman niya, si bunsoy, ay kakatapak lamang ng Grade 1. Pitong taong gulang na ito at ito ang katangkaran sa mga babae sa klase nito. Sabi ng kapwa niya magulang ay late na raw ang edad nito para sa baiting, pero kapag mahirap ka, mas maigi na ang huli kaysa wala. Nang makitang nahihimbing pa ang mga ito ay tahimik s’yang tumalikod at naglakad papuntang kusina. Ipagluluto niya ang mga anak ng sopas at adobong manok. May mga natira pa namang sangkap na iilang gulay, gatas, at macaroni na galing pa sa bahay ni Kapitan noong nangatulong siya sa paghahanda para sa piyesta. Bumili rin siya ng kalahating kilo na pakpak ng manok, kalahating kilo pa ulit ng atay ng manok, at limang kilo ng bigas. Inuna niya ang pagsasaing. Umabot pa ng tatlong gatang ang natitirang bigas nila sa pulang timba ng biskwit kaya ‘yun na lang ang ginamit niya. Pagkatapos ay agad niya rin itong pinalitan ng bagong biling bigas. De-uling pa ang kalan ni Vida kaya inabot siya ng limang minuto bago nakapagpaapoy. Siniguro niyang malakas ang apoy para madaling masaing. Kakaunti na lang kasi ang oras na natitira. Habang hinihintay na maluto ang kanin ay dumiretso na sa paghahanda ng mga sangkap si Vida. Siniguro niyang tahimik ang bawat kilos para maiwasang magising ang mga anak. Mas mapapatagal lamang kasi kung sasabay pa ang mga ito sa kanyang pagluluto. Habang hinahati at pinaparami ang manok ay patingin-tingin s’ya sa labas. Inaabangan ang inaasahan niyang mga bisita. Mukang magtatagal pa sila ah. Ano na kayang balita? Dito lamang naikot ang isip ni Vida sa tuwing nakikitang medyo normal pa sa labas. May mga potpot na nagbebenta na pan de sal at monay, mga nanay na labas-masok ng kani-kanilang mga bahay dahil tulad niya ay naghahanda rin ng pagkain, at mga lalaking kauuwi lamang sa trabaho o siguro kaya’y galing sa inuman. Tulog pa ata ang karamihan ng mga bata. Mabuti naman, walang maingay. Hindi magigising ang tatlo. Binalikan niya ang sinaing at tiningnan kung pupwede na bang hanguin. Okay na ito. Dapat ako magmadali talaga. Dali-dali niyang isinalang ang kaserolang may laman na pinira-pirasong manok. Habang hinihintay na maluto ang manok ay paunti-unti rin siyang naglilinis. Tahimik pa rin ang bawat kilos. Lampas kalahating oras na siyang nakakauwi at ano mang oras ay baka magising ang mga anak niya o di kaya’y dumating ang mga hinihintay n’ya. Winalis niya ang buong bahay. Maliit lang naman iyon kaya mabilis lamang siyang natapos. Pagkatapos ay marahan siyang naglakad papasok sa maliit nilang tulugan, kinuha ang lumang backpack ng kanyang panganay at sinilid doon ang ilang damit. Tatlong blouse, dalawang mahabang pambaba at isang short. Dinamihan niya ang panloob dahil alanganin na kakaunti lamang ang dala. Pagkatapos niyang mag-empake ay itinago niya muna backpack sa ilalim ng lababo. Hinango niya na rin ang manok at agad na pinalitan ng palayok na pamana pa sa kanya. Dahil hinanda niya na kanina sa labas ang lahat ng kakailanganin ay dahan dahan niyang sinara ang pinto para hindi marinig mula sa loob ang ingay ng paggigisa. Bawat kilos niya ay mabilis, halata **** naghahabol ng oras. Kailangang makatapos agad siya para may makain ang tatlo sa paggising nila. Nang makatapos sa sopas ay agad niya itong ipinasok at ipinatong sa lamesa. Sinigurong nakalapat ang takip para mainit-init pa sakaling tanghaliin ng gising ang mga anak. Dali-daling hinugasan ang ginamit na kaserola sa paglalaga at agad ulit itong isinalang sa apoy. Atay ng manok ang binili niya para siguradong mas mabilis maluluto. Magandang ipang-ulam ang adobo dahil ma-sarsa, pwede ring ulit-ulitin ang pag-iinit hanggang maubos. Habang hinihintay na lumambot na ang mga patatas, nakarinig siya ng mga yabag mula sa likuran. Nandito na sila. Hindi pa tapos ‘tong adobo. “Vida.” Narinig niyang tawag sa kanya ng pamilyar na boses ng lalaki. Malapit niyang kaibigan si Tobias. Tata Tobi kung tawagin ng mga anak niya. Madalas niya ditong ihabilin ang tatlo kapag kailangan niyang mag-overnight sa bahay ng amo. “Tobi. Andito na pala kayo,” nginitian niya pa ang dalawang kasama nitong nasa likuran. Tahimik lang ang mga itong nagmamasid sa kanya. “Hindi pa tapos ang adobo ko eh. Ilalahok ko pa lang ang atay. Pwedeng upo muna kayo doon sa loob? Saglit na lang naman ‘to.” Mukhang nag-aalangan pa ang dalawa pero tahimik itong kinausap ni Tobi. Maya-maya ay parang pumayag na rin ito at tahimik na naglakad papasok. Narinig niya pang sinabihan ni Tobi ang mga ito na dahan-dahan lamang dahil natutulog ang mga anak niya. Napangiti na lamang siya rito. Pagkalahok ng atay at tinakpan niya ang kaserola. Tahimik siyang naglakad papasok habang nararamdaman ang pagmamasid sa kanya. Tumungo siya sa lababo at kinuha ang backpack. Lumapit siya sa mga panauhin at tahimik na dinaluhan ang mga ito tapos ay sabay-sabay nilang pinanood ang usok galing sa adobong atay. “M-ma’am.” Rinig niyang tawag sa kanya ng kasama ni Tobias. Corazon ang nakaburdang apelyido sa plantsadong uniporme. Mukhang bata pa ito at baguhan. “Naku, ser. ‘Wag na po ganoon ang itawag niyo sa akin. Alam niyo naman na kung sino ako.” Maraan niyang sabi dito, nahihiya. “Vida. Pwede ka namang tumanggi.” Si Tobias talaga. “Tobi naman. Parang hindi ka pamilyar. Tabingi ang tatsulok, Tobias. Alam mo iyan.” Iniiwasan niyang salubungin ang mga mata ni Tobias. Nararamdaman niya kasi ang paninitig nito. Tumatagos. Damang-dama niya sa bawat himaymay ng katawan niya at baka saglit lamang na pagtingin dito ay umiyak na siya. Kanina niya pa nilulunok ang umaalsang hagulhol dail ayaw niyang magising ang mga anak. “Vida…” marahang tawag sa kanya ng isa pang kasama ni Tobi. Mukhang mas matanda ito sa Corazon pero halatang mas matanda pa rin ang kaibigan niya. “Ano ba talaga ang nangyari?” “Ser…Abit,” mabagal niyang basa sa apelyido nito. “Ngayon lang po ako nanindigan para sa sarili ko.” garalgal ang boses niya. Nararamdaman niya na ang umaahon na luha. “Isang beses ko lang po naramdaman na tao ako, ser. At ngayon po iyon. Nakakapangsisi na sa ganitong paraan ko lang nabawi ang pagkatao ko, pero ang mahalaga po ay ang mga anak ko. Mahalaga po sila sa’kin, ser.” mahina lamang ang pagkakasabi niya, sapat na para magkarinigan silang apat. “Kung mahalaga sila, bakit mo ginawa ‘yon? Vida, bakit ka pumatay?” Sasagot n asana siya ng marinig niyang kumaluskos ang banig mula sa kuwarto. Lumabas doon ang panganay niyang pupungas-pungas pa. dagli niya itong pinalapit at pinaupo sa kinauupuan niya. Lumuhod siya sa harap nito para magpantay sila. “Anak. Good morning. Kamusta ang tulog mo?” “Good morning din, nay. Sino po sila? ‘Ta Tobi?” “Kaibigan sila ni ‘Ta Tobias, be. Hinihintay nila ako kasi may pupuntahan kami eh.” marahan niyang paliwanag, tinatantya ang bawat salita dahil bagong gising lamang ang anak. “Saan, nay? May handaan po uli sina ser?” tukoy nito sa mga dati niyang amo. “Basta ‘nak. Kunin mo muna yung bag ko doon sa lamesa, dali. Kunin ko yung ulam natin mamaya. Masarap yun, be.” Agad naman itong sumunod habang kinukuha niya na rin ang bagong luto na adobo. Pagkapatong sa lamesa ng ulam ay nilapitan niya ulit ang anak na tinitingnan-tingnan ang tahimik na mga  kasama ni Tobias. “Be…” tawag niya rito. Pagkalingon nito sa kanya ay hinawakan niya ang mga kamay nito. Nagsisikip na ang lalamunan niya. Nag-iinit na rin ang mga mata niya at nahihirapan na sa pagbuga ng hangin. “Be, wala na sina ser. Wala na sila, hindi na nila tayo magugulo.” ngiti niya rito. Namilog naman ang mga mata nito. Halata **** natuwa sa narinig. “Tahimik na tayo, nay? Hindi na nila kakalampagin ang pinto natin sa gabi?” “Hindi na siguro, anak. Makakatulog na kayo ng dire-diretso, pangako.” Sinapo niya ang mukha nito tapos ay matunog na hinalikan sa pisngi at noo. ‘Eto na ang matagal niyang pinapangarap na buhay para sa mga anak. Tahimik. Simple. Walang gulo. “Kaso, ‘nak, kailangan kong sumama sa kanila.” Turo niya kayna Tobias. Nanonood lamang ito sa kanila. Hawak na rin ni Tobi ang backpack niya. “May ginawa kasi si nanay, be. Para diretso na ang tulog natin at para di na tayo guluhin nina ser. Pramis ko naman sa’yo be, magsasama ulit tayo. Pangako. Bilangin mo ang tulog na hindi tayo magkakasama. Tapos pagbalik ko, hihigitan ko pa ‘yon ng maraming maraming tulog na magkakasama na tayo.” “Nay…” nagtataka na ang itsura ng anak niya. Namumula na kasi ang mukha niya panigurado. Kakapigil na humagulhol dahil ayaw niyang magising ang dalawa pang anak. “Anak parang ano lang ito…abroad. Diba may kaklase kang nasa abroad ang nanay? Doon din ako, be.” Bigla ay nagtubig ang mga mata ng panganay niya. Malalaking butil ng tubig. Hindi niya alam kung naniniwala pa ba ito sa mga sinasabi niya, o kung naiintindihan na nito ang mga nangyayari. “Itong bag ko, andiyan yung wallet at telepono ko. Diba matagal mo nang gusto magkaroon ng ganon, be? Iyo na ‘yan, basta dapat iingatan mo ha. Yung pera be, kay Tata Tobias mo ihahabilin. Habang nagtatrabaho ako, kay ‘Ta Tobi muna kayo.” “Nay, hindi ka naman magtatrabaho eh.” Lumabi ang anak niya tapos ay tuluyan nang nalaglag ang luha. Tinawanan niya naman ito. “Sira, magtatrabaho ako. Basta intayin mo ‘ko be ha? Kayo nina bunsoy ko, ha?” Hindi niya napigilang lambing-lambingin ito na parang batang munti. Kailangan ay sulitin niya ang pagkakataon. Paulit-ulit niya itong dinampian ng maliliit na halik sa mukha, wala na siyang pakealam kung malasahan niya ang alat ng luha nito. Kailangan ay masulit niya ang natitirang oras. “Nay, sama po ako. Sama kami ni bunsoy. Tahimik lang kami lagi, pramis, nay. Parang kapag andito si ser, hindi naman kami gugulo doon.” Tuluyan na ngang umalpas ang hikbi niya. Naalala niyang muli ang rason kung ba’t n’ya ito ginagawa. Para sa tahimik na buhay ng mga anak. “Sus, maniwala sa’yo, be. Basta hintayin mo si nay. ‘Lika ***** tayo doon sa kwarto, magbabye ako kayna bunsoy.” Yakag niya rito. Sumama naman ito sa kanya habang nakayakap sa baywang niya. Humihikbi-hikbi pa rin ito habang naagos ang luha. Tahimik niyang nilapitan ang dalawa. Kinumutan niyang muli ang mga ito at kinintalan ng masusuyong halik sa mga noo. Bata pa ang mga anak niya. Marami pa silang magagawa. Malayo pa ang mararating nila. Hindi tulad ng mga magulang nila, ‘yun ang sisiguraduhin niya. Hindi ito mapapatulad sa kanila ng mister niya. “Be, dito ka na lang ha. Alis na si nanay. Alagaan mo sina bunsoy, be, ha. Pati sarili mo. Ang iskul mo anak, kahit hindi ka manguna, ayos lang kay nanay. Hindi naman ako magagalit. Basta gagalingan mo hangga’t kaya mo ha. Mahal kita, be. Kayong tatlo. Mahal na mahal namin kayo.” Mahigpit niya itong niyakap habang paiyak na binubulong ang mga habilin. Wala na ring tigil ang pag-iyak niya kaya agad na siyang tumayo. Baka magising pa ang dalawa. Nakita niya namang nakaabang sa pinto si Tobi bitbit ang bag niya. Kinuha niya rito ang bag at sinabihang ito na ang bahala sa mga anak. Baog si Tobias at iniwan na ng asawa. Sumama raw sa ibang lalaking mas mayaman pa rito. Kagawad si Tobias sa lugar nila kaya sigurado siyang hindi magugutom ang mga anak niya rito. May tiwala siyang mamahalin ni Tobias na parang sarili nitong mga anak ang tatlo dahil matagal niya na itong nasaksihan. Pagsakay sa sasakyan kasama ang dalawang pulis na kasama ni Tobias ay saka lamang siya pinosasan ng lalaking may burdang Corazon. “Kilala namang sindikato yung napatay mo, ma’am. Kulang lamang kami sa ebidensya dahil malakas ang kapit sa taas. Kung sana…sana ay hindi ka nag-iwan ng sulat.” “Nabuhay ang mga anak kong may duwag na ina, ser. Ayokong lumaki pa sila sa puder ng isang taong walang paninindigan. Pinatay niya na ang asawa ko. Dapat ay sapat na ‘yon na bayad sa utang namin, diba?” kung kanina ay halo humagulhol siya sa harap ng mga anak, ngayon ay walang emosyong mahahamig sa boses niya. Nakatingin lamang siya sa labas at tinititigan ang mga napapatingin sa dumadaang sasakyan ng pulis. Kung sana ay hindi tinulungan ng mga nakatataas ang amo niya. Kung sana ay nakakalap ng sapat na mga ebidensya ang mga pulis na ngayon ay kasama niya. Kung sana ay may naipambayad sila sa inutang ng asawa niya para pambayad sa panganganak niya. Kung hindi siguro siya mahirap, baka wala siya rito.
0
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 3:43 AM UTC
leonoah
Natividad
Alas sais y medya na ng umaga nang makauwi si Natividad mula sa bahay ng kanyang amo. Pagkababa n’ya ng maliit na bag na laman ang kanyang cellphone at wallet na merong labin-limang libo at iilang barya ay marahan siyang naglakad tungo sa kwartong tinutulugan ng kanyang tatlong anak. Hinawi niya ang berdeng kurtina at sumilip sa kanyang mga anghel. Babae ang panganay ni Natividad, o di kaya’y Vida. Labindalawang taong gulang na ito at nasa Grade 7 na. Isa sa mga malas na naabutan ng pahirap na K-12 program. Ang gitna naman ay sampung taong gulang na lalaki at mayroong down syndrome. Special child ang tawag nila sa batang tulad nito, pero “abnormal” o “abno” naman ang ipinalayaw ng mga lasinggero sa kanila. Ang bunso naman niya, si bunsoy, ay kakatapak lamang ng Grade 1. Pitong taong gulang na ito at ito ang katangkaran sa mga babae sa klase nito. Sabi ng kapwa niya magulang ay late na raw ang edad nito para sa baiting, pero kapag mahirap ka, mas maigi na ang huli kaysa wala. Nang makitang nahihimbing pa ang mga ito ay tahimik s’yang tumalikod at naglakad papuntang kusina. Ipagluluto niya ang mga anak ng sopas at adobong manok. May mga natira pa namang sangkap na iilang gulay, gatas, at macaroni na galing pa sa bahay ni Kapitan noong nangatulong siya sa paghahanda para sa piyesta. Bumili rin siya ng kalahating kilo na pakpak ng manok, kalahating kilo pa ulit ng atay ng manok, at limang kilo ng bigas. Inuna niya ang pagsasaing. Umabot pa ng tatlong gatang ang natitirang bigas nila sa pulang timba ng biskwit kaya ‘yun na lang ang ginamit niya. Pagkatapos ay agad niya rin itong pinalitan ng bagong biling bigas. De-uling pa ang kalan ni Vida kaya inabot siya ng limang minuto bago nakapagpaapoy. Siniguro niyang malakas ang apoy para madaling masaing. Kakaunti na lang kasi ang oras na natitira. Habang hinihintay na maluto ang kanin ay dumiretso na sa paghahanda ng mga sangkap si Vida. Siniguro niyang tahimik ang bawat kilos para maiwasang magising ang mga anak. Mas mapapatagal lamang kasi kung sasabay pa ang mga ito sa kanyang pagluluto. Habang hinahati at pinaparami ang manok ay patingin-tingin s’ya sa labas. Inaabangan ang inaasahan niyang mga bisita. Mukang magtatagal pa sila ah. Ano na kayang balita? Dito lamang naikot ang isip ni Vida sa tuwing nakikitang medyo normal pa sa labas. May mga potpot na nagbebenta na pan de sal at monay, mga nanay na labas-masok ng kani-kanilang mga bahay dahil tulad niya ay naghahanda rin ng pagkain, at mga lalaking kauuwi lamang sa trabaho o siguro kaya’y galing sa inuman. Tulog pa ata ang karamihan ng mga bata. Mabuti naman, walang maingay. Hindi magigising ang tatlo. Binalikan niya ang sinaing at tiningnan kung pupwede na bang hanguin. Okay na ito. Dapat ako magmadali talaga. Dali-dali niyang isinalang ang kaserolang may laman na pinira-pirasong manok. Habang hinihintay na maluto ang manok ay paunti-unti rin siyang naglilinis. Tahimik pa rin ang bawat kilos. Lampas kalahating oras na siyang nakakauwi at ano mang oras ay baka magising ang mga anak niya o di kaya’y dumating ang mga hinihintay n’ya. Winalis niya ang buong bahay. Maliit lang naman iyon kaya mabilis lamang siyang natapos. Pagkatapos ay marahan siyang naglakad papasok sa maliit nilang tulugan, kinuha ang lumang backpack ng kanyang panganay at sinilid doon ang ilang damit. Tatlong blouse, dalawang mahabang pambaba at isang short. Dinamihan niya ang panloob dahil alanganin na kakaunti lamang ang dala. Pagkatapos niyang mag-empake ay itinago niya muna backpack sa ilalim ng lababo. Hinango niya na rin ang manok at agad na pinalitan ng palayok na pamana pa sa kanya. Dahil hinanda niya na kanina sa labas ang lahat ng kakailanganin ay dahan dahan niyang sinara ang pinto para hindi marinig mula sa loob ang ingay ng paggigisa. Bawat kilos niya ay mabilis, halata **** naghahabol ng oras. Kailangang makatapos agad siya para may makain ang tatlo sa paggising nila. Nang makatapos sa sopas ay agad niya itong ipinasok at ipinatong sa lamesa. Sinigurong nakalapat ang takip para mainit-init pa sakaling tanghaliin ng gising ang mga anak. Dali-daling hinugasan ang ginamit na kaserola sa paglalaga at agad ulit itong isinalang sa apoy. Atay ng manok ang binili niya para siguradong mas mabilis maluluto. Magandang ipang-ulam ang adobo dahil ma-sarsa, pwede ring ulit-ulitin ang pag-iinit hanggang maubos. Habang hinihintay na lumambot na ang mga patatas, nakarinig siya ng mga yabag mula sa likuran. Nandito na sila. Hindi pa tapos ‘tong adobo. “Vida.” Narinig niyang tawag sa kanya ng pamilyar na boses ng lalaki. Malapit niyang kaibigan si Tobias. Tata Tobi kung tawagin ng mga anak niya. Madalas niya ditong ihabilin ang tatlo kapag kailangan niyang mag-overnight sa bahay ng amo. “Tobi. Andito na pala kayo,” nginitian niya pa ang dalawang kasama nitong nasa likuran. Tahimik lang ang mga itong nagmamasid sa kanya. “Hindi pa tapos ang adobo ko eh. Ilalahok ko pa lang ang atay. Pwedeng upo muna kayo doon sa loob? Saglit na lang naman ‘to.” Mukhang nag-aalangan pa ang dalawa pero tahimik itong kinausap ni Tobi. Maya-maya ay parang pumayag na rin ito at tahimik na naglakad papasok. Narinig niya pang sinabihan ni Tobi ang mga ito na dahan-dahan lamang dahil natutulog ang mga anak niya. Napangiti na lamang siya rito. Pagkalahok ng atay at tinakpan niya ang kaserola. Tahimik siyang naglakad papasok habang nararamdaman ang pagmamasid sa kanya. Tumungo siya sa lababo at kinuha ang backpack. Lumapit siya sa mga panauhin at tahimik na dinaluhan ang mga ito tapos ay sabay-sabay nilang pinanood ang usok galing sa adobong atay. “M-ma’am.” Rinig niyang tawag sa kanya ng kasama ni Tobias. Corazon ang nakaburdang apelyido sa plantsadong uniporme. Mukhang bata pa ito at baguhan. “Naku, ser. ‘Wag na po ganoon ang itawag niyo sa akin. Alam niyo naman na kung sino ako.” Maraan niyang sabi dito, nahihiya. “Vida. Pwede ka namang tumanggi.” Si Tobias talaga. “Tobi naman. Parang hindi ka pamilyar. Tabingi ang tatsulok, Tobias. Alam mo iyan.” Iniiwasan niyang salubungin ang mga mata ni Tobias. Nararamdaman niya kasi ang paninitig nito. Tumatagos. Damang-dama niya sa bawat himaymay ng katawan niya at baka saglit lamang na pagtingin dito ay umiyak na siya. Kanina niya pa nilulunok ang umaalsang hagulhol dail ayaw niyang magising ang mga anak. “Vida…” marahang tawag sa kanya ng isa pang kasama ni Tobi. Mukhang mas matanda ito sa Corazon pero halatang mas matanda pa rin ang kaibigan niya. “Ano ba talaga ang nangyari?” “Ser…Abit,” mabagal niyang basa sa apelyido nito. “Ngayon lang po ako nanindigan para sa sarili ko.” garalgal ang boses niya. Nararamdaman niya na ang umaahon na luha. “Isang beses ko lang po naramdaman na tao ako, ser. At ngayon po iyon. Nakakapangsisi na sa ganitong paraan ko lang nabawi ang pagkatao ko, pero ang mahalaga po ay ang mga anak ko. Mahalaga po sila sa’kin, ser.” mahina lamang ang pagkakasabi niya, sapat na para magkarinigan silang apat. “Kung mahalaga sila, bakit mo ginawa ‘yon? Vida, bakit ka pumatay?” Sasagot n asana siya ng marinig niyang kumaluskos ang banig mula sa kuwarto. Lumabas doon ang panganay niyang pupungas-pungas pa. dagli niya itong pinalapit at pinaupo sa kinauupuan niya. Lumuhod siya sa harap nito para magpantay sila. “Anak. Good morning. Kamusta ang tulog mo?” “Good morning din, nay. Sino po sila? ‘Ta Tobi?” “Kaibigan sila ni ‘Ta Tobias, be. Hinihintay nila ako kasi may pupuntahan kami eh.” marahan niyang paliwanag, tinatantya ang bawat salita dahil bagong gising lamang ang anak. “Saan, nay? May handaan po uli sina ser?” tukoy nito sa mga dati niyang amo. “Basta ‘nak. Kunin mo muna yung bag ko doon sa lamesa, dali. Kunin ko yung ulam natin mamaya. Masarap yun, be.” Agad naman itong sumunod habang kinukuha niya na rin ang bagong luto na adobo. Pagkapatong sa lamesa ng ulam ay nilapitan niya ulit ang anak na tinitingnan-tingnan ang tahimik na mga  kasama ni Tobias. “Be…” tawag niya rito. Pagkalingon nito sa kanya ay hinawakan niya ang mga kamay nito. Nagsisikip na ang lalamunan niya. Nag-iinit na rin ang mga mata niya at nahihirapan na sa pagbuga ng hangin. “Be, wala na sina ser. Wala na sila, hindi na nila tayo magugulo.” ngiti niya rito. Namilog naman ang mga mata nito. Halata **** natuwa sa narinig. “Tahimik na tayo, nay? Hindi na nila kakalampagin ang pinto natin sa gabi?” “Hindi na siguro, anak. Makakatulog na kayo ng dire-diretso, pangako.” Sinapo niya ang mukha nito tapos ay matunog na hinalikan sa pisngi at noo. ‘Eto na ang matagal niyang pinapangarap na buhay para sa mga anak. Tahimik. Simple. Walang gulo. “Kaso, ‘nak, kailangan kong sumama sa kanila.” Turo niya kayna Tobias. Nanonood lamang ito sa kanila. Hawak na rin ni Tobi ang backpack niya. “May ginawa kasi si nanay, be. Para diretso na ang tulog natin at para di na tayo guluhin nina ser. Pramis ko naman sa’yo be, magsasama ulit tayo. Pangako. Bilangin mo ang tulog na hindi tayo magkakasama. Tapos pagbalik ko, hihigitan ko pa ‘yon ng maraming maraming tulog na magkakasama na tayo.” “Nay…” nagtataka na ang itsura ng anak niya. Namumula na kasi ang mukha niya panigurado. Kakapigil na humagulhol dahil ayaw niyang magising ang dalawa pang anak. “Anak parang ano lang ito…abroad. Diba may kaklase kang nasa abroad ang nanay? Doon din ako, be.” Bigla ay nagtubig ang mga mata ng panganay niya. Malalaking butil ng tubig. Hindi niya alam kung naniniwala pa ba ito sa mga sinasabi niya, o kung naiintindihan na nito ang mga nangyayari. “Itong bag ko, andiyan yung wallet at telepono ko. Diba matagal mo nang gusto magkaroon ng ganon, be? Iyo na ‘yan, basta dapat iingatan mo ha. Yung pera be, kay Tata Tobias mo ihahabilin. Habang nagtatrabaho ako, kay ‘Ta Tobi muna kayo.” “Nay, hindi ka naman magtatrabaho eh.” Lumabi ang anak niya tapos ay tuluyan nang nalaglag ang luha. Tinawanan niya naman ito. “Sira, magtatrabaho ako. Basta intayin mo ‘ko be ha? Kayo nina bunsoy ko, ha?” Hindi niya napigilang lambing-lambingin ito na parang batang munti. Kailangan ay sulitin niya ang pagkakataon. Paulit-ulit niya itong dinampian ng maliliit na halik sa mukha, wala na siyang pakealam kung malasahan niya ang alat ng luha nito. Kailangan ay masulit niya ang natitirang oras. “Nay, sama po ako. Sama kami ni bunsoy. Tahimik lang kami lagi, pramis, nay. Parang kapag andito si ser, hindi naman kami gugulo doon.” Tuluyan na ngang umalpas ang hikbi niya. Naalala niyang muli ang rason kung ba’t n’ya ito ginagawa. Para sa tahimik na buhay ng mga anak. “Sus, maniwala sa’yo, be. Basta hintayin mo si nay. ‘Lika ***** tayo doon sa kwarto, magbabye ako kayna bunsoy.” Yakag niya rito. Sumama naman ito sa kanya habang nakayakap sa baywang niya. Humihikbi-hikbi pa rin ito habang naagos ang luha. Tahimik niyang nilapitan ang dalawa. Kinumutan niyang muli ang mga ito at kinintalan ng masusuyong halik sa mga noo. Bata pa ang mga anak niya. Marami pa silang magagawa. Malayo pa ang mararating nila. Hindi tulad ng mga magulang nila, ‘yun ang sisiguraduhin niya. Hindi ito mapapatulad sa kanila ng mister niya. “Be, dito ka na lang ha. Alis na si nanay. Alagaan mo sina bunsoy, be, ha. Pati sarili mo. Ang iskul mo anak, kahit hindi ka manguna, ayos lang kay nanay. Hindi naman ako magagalit. Basta gagalingan mo hangga’t kaya mo ha. Mahal kita, be. Kayong tatlo. Mahal na mahal namin kayo.” Mahigpit niya itong niyakap habang paiyak na binubulong ang mga habilin. Wala na ring tigil ang pag-iyak niya kaya agad na siyang tumayo. Baka magising pa ang dalawa. Nakita niya namang nakaabang sa pinto si Tobi bitbit ang bag niya. Kinuha niya rito ang bag at sinabihang ito na ang bahala sa mga anak. Baog si Tobias at iniwan na ng asawa. Sumama raw sa ibang lalaking mas mayaman pa rito. Kagawad si Tobias sa lugar nila kaya sigurado siyang hindi magugutom ang mga anak niya rito. May tiwala siyang mamahalin ni Tobias na parang sarili nitong mga anak ang tatlo dahil matagal niya na itong nasaksihan. Pagsakay sa sasakyan kasama ang dalawang pulis na kasama ni Tobias ay saka lamang siya pinosasan ng lalaking may burdang Corazon. “Kilala namang sindikato yung napatay mo, ma’am. Kulang lamang kami sa ebidensya dahil malakas ang kapit sa taas. Kung sana…sana ay hindi ka nag-iwan ng sulat.” “Nabuhay ang mga anak kong may duwag na ina, ser. Ayokong lumaki pa sila sa puder ng isang taong walang paninindigan. Pinatay niya na ang asawa ko. Dapat ay sapat na ‘yon na bayad sa utang namin, diba?” kung kanina ay halo humagulhol siya sa harap ng mga anak, ngayon ay walang emosyong mahahamig sa boses niya. Nakatingin lamang siya sa labas at tinititigan ang mga napapatingin sa dumadaang sasakyan ng pulis. Kung sana ay hindi tinulungan ng mga nakatataas ang amo niya. Kung sana ay nakakalap ng sapat na mga ebidensya ang mga pulis na ngayon ay kasama niya. Kung sana ay may naipambayad sila sa inutang ng asawa niya para pambayad sa panganganak niya. Kung hindi siguro siya mahirap, baka wala siya rito.
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69
They are stacks of mud-- Splattered filth on the curb slowly rotting away like debris of our own path. Trampled upon leaves and roadkill rabbits that pass by our eyes like the birds of the sky; Forgotten people of time and tragedy's aftermath. Yet these wise wise fools are happier than I, the higher and mightier Begotteb of a son. Whom dwells in depression Chained to a society that feeds off of misery and regretful deceit; The comfort and contentment perceived as luxury and success For I see them smile almost a daily occurrence, as though a new sunshine is enough of a reason to live zealously. For I have not unwithholdingly smiled in countless years, yet these pitiful souls have the ability to surpass my own and thrive in the freedom of their hearts whilst I suffer in the mundane of wealth.
0
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 2:50 PM UTC
jesse-ramon-claudio
Home
They are stacks of mud-- Splattered filth on the curb slowly rotting away like debris of our own path. Trampled upon leaves and roadkill rabbits that pass by our eyes like the birds of the sky; Forgotten people of time and tragedy's aftermath. Yet these wise wise fools are happier than I, the higher and mightier Begotteb of a son. Whom dwells in depression Chained to a society that feeds off of misery and regretful deceit; The comfort and contentment perceived as luxury and success For I see them smile almost a daily occurrence, as though a new sunshine is enough of a reason to live zealously. For I have not unwithholdingly smiled in countless years, yet these pitiful souls have the ability to surpass my own and thrive in the freedom of their hearts whilst I suffer in the mundane of wealth.
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30
spoke through the fire we rode babylon 999 like school children making for the intersection a horn blared triumphant screech of capital and we tumbled through the air the last image reflected in our eyes coca-cola no sugar at the horizon of sleep the empty palm of war stretches indefinitely a profit-margin rounding the ennui of all our profane martyrs and saints history wreathed in the thorns of labour the mistletoe we ****** beneath putrid, damp, abject mirror-images of our parents and under the skylight of the mall i found in you a whistling hole where all the birds caught within choked.
0
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 11:55 PM UTC
mitakiharashi
babylon 999
spoke through the fire we rode babylon 999 like school children making for the intersection a horn blared triumphant screech of capital and we tumbled through the air the last image reflected in our eyes coca-cola no sugar at the horizon of sleep the empty palm of war stretches indefinitely a profit-margin rounding the ennui of all our profane martyrs and saints history wreathed in the thorns of labour the mistletoe we ****** beneath putrid, damp, abject mirror-images of our parents and under the skylight of the mall i found in you a whistling hole where all the birds caught within choked.
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20
"that'll be thirty dollars" says the cashier and I willingly hand him the money knowing I could take my groceries and run society has problems but why is nobody willing to step up and fix them? myself included we all know we are bad people, and we all know we are not willing to change.
0
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 11:58 PM UTC
crandallbranch
impossible change
"that'll be thirty dollars" says the cashier and I willingly hand him the money knowing I could take my groceries and run society has problems but why is nobody willing to step up and fix them? myself included we all know we are bad people, and we all know we are not willing to change.
Continue reading...
8
with regard to those who believe time has let us down, it is not our fault that we expected more in life than the simple basic pay that we force ourselves to earn, that only a minimal few get more than £4 an hour and earn a million in a day they take and they take and we give our all, to a job that will eventually fire us, retire us and dig our grave, all to provide ourselves with a mortgage and a tax paying wage that some of us can never afford, and we **** ourselves because of debt and we stare at our kids with resentment because they’re dream killers but they’re a social norm, and if you don’t fit in you don’t make it social darwinism, liberalism conservatism, socialists, Marxists, communists, left wing advocates, the ones the poor ‘take advantage’ of because we believe people deserve the best chance in life, and unless you’re incredibly lucky and you’re born at the top you are bred with that chance, and the rest of us are at the bottom because meritocracy doesn’t exist it never will because those who believe they’re better, the elite-born ***** at the top come from the brightest schools, the most expensive and they gave them confidence and money something we don’t own being in the northern region of a divided country and your prime minister killed our jobs and i find it funny that people still vote for your two faced, pragmatic party you haven’t been remotely interested in us since Disraeli, but even he tried to help us selfishly the working class, the proletariat is divided because of the lies you feed us through the media, you honestly think you’re superior and you are but you ignore poverty and you accept inequality and society isn’t like a human body because if it worked this wouldn’t exist, this divided society that you don’t even acknowledge because why would you when you have enough money and power and overall glory that you have been smothered in your whole life whereas we have seen what your policies achieve and you try to buy us off with basic low wages and give starving people benefits which take ages to come through and you don’t care when they die because they weren’t employed, didn’t belong in this capitalist economy, which you gladly enjoy, while we sit at the bottom in absolute despair, that I don’t even know if we’re really aware of the exploitation we are put through every single day all to make enough money to pay for the taxes you evade, and i wish for the whole world there was something i could do, because if i had any money, i would share it with you.
0
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
24stars
you can't have pure equality if you want the world to be fair
with regard to those who believe time has let us down, it is not our fault that we expected more in life than the simple basic pay that we force ourselves to earn, that only a minimal few get more than £4 an hour and earn a million in a day they take and they take and we give our all, to a job that will eventually fire us, retire us and dig our grave, all to provide ourselves with a mortgage and a tax paying wage that some of us can never afford, and we **** ourselves because of debt and we stare at our kids with resentment because they’re dream killers but they’re a social norm, and if you don’t fit in you don’t make it social darwinism, liberalism conservatism, socialists, Marxists, communists, left wing advocates, the ones the poor ‘take advantage’ of because we believe people deserve the best chance in life, and unless you’re incredibly lucky and you’re born at the top you are bred with that chance, and the rest of us are at the bottom because meritocracy doesn’t exist it never will because those who believe they’re better, the elite-born ***** at the top come from the brightest schools, the most expensive and they gave them confidence and money something we don’t own being in the northern region of a divided country and your prime minister killed our jobs and i find it funny that people still vote for your two faced, pragmatic party you haven’t been remotely interested in us since Disraeli, but even he tried to help us selfishly the working class, the proletariat is divided because of the lies you feed us through the media, you honestly think you’re superior and you are but you ignore poverty and you accept inequality and society isn’t like a human body because if it worked this wouldn’t exist, this divided society that you don’t even acknowledge because why would you when you have enough money and power and overall glory that you have been smothered in your whole life whereas we have seen what your policies achieve and you try to buy us off with basic low wages and give starving people benefits which take ages to come through and you don’t care when they die because they weren’t employed, didn’t belong in this capitalist economy, which you gladly enjoy, while we sit at the bottom in absolute despair, that I don’t even know if we’re really aware of the exploitation we are put through every single day all to make enough money to pay for the taxes you evade, and i wish for the whole world there was something i could do, because if i had any money, i would share it with you.
Continue reading...
72
I’ve walked on the tiles made for kings many times I’ve been in the house of luxury but it has never belonged to me I am but a visitor in the palace of Eden I could describe the opulence but I cannot tell you how it feels to posses, to own, to carry your weight lightly in such states I am not a beholder and I’ve never felt myself worthy of such affluent and often unnecessary necessities working class woman on the weekends to clean the savvy bungalows of the ludicrous and almost laughable wealth of Beverly Hills it felt almost like trespassing, like jumping over train tracks As soon as you see sight of headlights getting closer and the earth beneath you tumble, shaking it’s veins I would wear a uniform, a knight’s armor of invisibility upon arrival, there was that shift in the air That momentary feeling that you’re not in Kansas anymore There are more trees here, the bugs even seem more alive than they did down there below the hills the pedestal of the hungry, greed sitting humbly on its’ throne smoking expensive colored cigarettes rings blowing in your face of cool breeze Although every residence was architecturally different it was always the same, the same austere patterns the redundant originality, the commonplace pretension The gates always had codes but the entrance was always open Whenever you stepped inside the first thing to notice were the Rorschach walls, the mirror image of whoever resided there the hollowness it evoked, the sterility of a life that although lived wasn’t honest dare I say unhappy There were usually film posters signed by movie stars long ago dead Art that said nothing, whose lips had been glued shut by clean dollar bills the brash ****** it tried to display lacked controversy in dusty rooms the irony being that it had become everything it tried to displease and yet I was envious the violent comfort it imposed was far more inviting than living in rations, in the poverty that ate at your skin it was friendliness with a clenched fist, like the hostess at a party that smiles too wide and moves her eyes too quickly sloshing her champagne glass but never quite spilling it I remember once stumbling upon one the owners of a house she was sitting in a wheelchair, there were diamonds on the wheels I thought I was meeting god for the first time she looked like she had lived ten lifetimes, wearing fox fur around her neck the paws resting defiantly on shaky shoulders age spots congregating around her eyes like whispering spies wrinkles weaving and unraveling from her forehead to her chin small nose inhaling sharp gulps of smoke, dust, reason she wore a translucent egg-shell colored gown that cascaded like a waterfall down to her tiny feet it was as transparent as her skin making her look like a one of those see-through fishes all organs and blood, bone with the marrow withering her eyes were closed but she spoke, piercing the room “so you’re the new girl. We don’t take kindly to strangers so she must’ve thought you were trustworthy, but I know someone’s true intentions. I can smell it. It’s a gift. It’s always the foreigners that wear masks. That’s how they survive and who can blame them I would do the same. I’ve been all over the world; the tips of my boots have been polished while there are others that fester like rats in their own caves. I know the contempt they must feel, I’ve never been held down by others more powerful than me and yet I know that it only creates misunderstanding. I didn’t ask for this. I earned this. All of this.” She pointed around the room. “I am the only one that can decide my fate. When you want something bad enough it is given to you. Most just want things for free. They want it handed to them in a silver plate with a golden spoon. **** will always shy away from the light because there is a sickness in their brains that don’t let them see past their disgusting oppression. I assume since you haven’t interrupted, I take your silence as a sign that you don’t believe what I am saying. That this piece of advice has flown over you. I very well could have written these words on a letter at the bottom of a stack of mail that will never be opened and that’s okay. I don’t expect you to believe to my truth. But the emperor you see before you was not conjured out of dust and thin air, I swear it.” She ended with an angry laugh. I wanted to say that her environment was polluted with cotton ***** and the furniture was contaminated with soot and dead skin cells that once everyone dies they turn into dirt, into the sand from which we seemed to have been composed of but I realized that she didn’t see herself as dying Seeing her there in the dark room with the shades drawn I realized if that’s what it took to become a god I didn’t want to be any more than human but all I said was “ma’am your plants are in need of watering.”
0
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
nosebleedbaby
Dehydrated Milk
I’ve walked on the tiles made for kings many times I’ve been in the house of luxury but it has never belonged to me I am but a visitor in the palace of Eden I could describe the opulence but I cannot tell you how it feels to posses, to own, to carry your weight lightly in such states I am not a beholder and I’ve never felt myself worthy of such affluent and often unnecessary necessities working class woman on the weekends to clean the savvy bungalows of the ludicrous and almost laughable wealth of Beverly Hills it felt almost like trespassing, like jumping over train tracks As soon as you see sight of headlights getting closer and the earth beneath you tumble, shaking it’s veins I would wear a uniform, a knight’s armor of invisibility upon arrival, there was that shift in the air That momentary feeling that you’re not in Kansas anymore There are more trees here, the bugs even seem more alive than they did down there below the hills the pedestal of the hungry, greed sitting humbly on its’ throne smoking expensive colored cigarettes rings blowing in your face of cool breeze Although every residence was architecturally different it was always the same, the same austere patterns the redundant originality, the commonplace pretension The gates always had codes but the entrance was always open Whenever you stepped inside the first thing to notice were the Rorschach walls, the mirror image of whoever resided there the hollowness it evoked, the sterility of a life that although lived wasn’t honest dare I say unhappy There were usually film posters signed by movie stars long ago dead Art that said nothing, whose lips had been glued shut by clean dollar bills the brash ****** it tried to display lacked controversy in dusty rooms the irony being that it had become everything it tried to displease and yet I was envious the violent comfort it imposed was far more inviting than living in rations, in the poverty that ate at your skin it was friendliness with a clenched fist, like the hostess at a party that smiles too wide and moves her eyes too quickly sloshing her champagne glass but never quite spilling it I remember once stumbling upon one the owners of a house she was sitting in a wheelchair, there were diamonds on the wheels I thought I was meeting god for the first time she looked like she had lived ten lifetimes, wearing fox fur around her neck the paws resting defiantly on shaky shoulders age spots congregating around her eyes like whispering spies wrinkles weaving and unraveling from her forehead to her chin small nose inhaling sharp gulps of smoke, dust, reason she wore a translucent egg-shell colored gown that cascaded like a waterfall down to her tiny feet it was as transparent as her skin making her look like a one of those see-through fishes all organs and blood, bone with the marrow withering her eyes were closed but she spoke, piercing the room “so you’re the new girl. We don’t take kindly to strangers so she must’ve thought you were trustworthy, but I know someone’s true intentions. I can smell it. It’s a gift. It’s always the foreigners that wear masks. That’s how they survive and who can blame them I would do the same. I’ve been all over the world; the tips of my boots have been polished while there are others that fester like rats in their own caves. I know the contempt they must feel, I’ve never been held down by others more powerful than me and yet I know that it only creates misunderstanding. I didn’t ask for this. I earned this. All of this.” She pointed around the room. “I am the only one that can decide my fate. When you want something bad enough it is given to you. Most just want things for free. They want it handed to them in a silver plate with a golden spoon. **** will always shy away from the light because there is a sickness in their brains that don’t let them see past their disgusting oppression. I assume since you haven’t interrupted, I take your silence as a sign that you don’t believe what I am saying. That this piece of advice has flown over you. I very well could have written these words on a letter at the bottom of a stack of mail that will never be opened and that’s okay. I don’t expect you to believe to my truth. But the emperor you see before you was not conjured out of dust and thin air, I swear it.” She ended with an angry laugh. I wanted to say that her environment was polluted with cotton ***** and the furniture was contaminated with soot and dead skin cells that once everyone dies they turn into dirt, into the sand from which we seemed to have been composed of but I realized that she didn’t see herself as dying Seeing her there in the dark room with the shades drawn I realized if that’s what it took to become a god I didn’t want to be any more than human but all I said was “ma’am your plants are in need of watering.”
Continue reading...
93
Barbiturate is one of the few drugs capable of killing you painlessly, so of course the state has banned it. Instead we get paracetamol, a ****** over-the-counter painkiller that leaves you in pain for up to five days while your liver and kidneys shut down. Suicide prevention is a ******* joke. Secular appropriations of Christian values that assume life is worthwhile, whether you desire it or not. It’s long been known that rates of suicide rose dramatically with the birth of modernity—techno-scientific paradise for the middle-class which stresses efficiency over existence. New forms of automation, the human body disciplined into repetitious acts, the partitioning of workspaces so that no single worker could operate the whole—so that any worker could be fired and replaced with the minimum amount of training necessary for capital to continue circulating. The body is individualised, scrutinised, and punished by rich kids playing panopticon, so that any mass agitation is coerced into silence through the threat of destitution. Slitting your wrists barely succeeds and more likely than not leaves you with tendon and muscle damage. Catalytic converters in cars now convert carbon monoxide into harmless CO2 and H2O. Drowning is one of the most painful ways to die. You cannot escape. The state places helpline numbers around suicide spots to treat life after the fact, rather than at the source of suffering. Vocal band-aids, ****** ******* aphorisms that seek to revert you back into a happy state-serving commodity. Things will get better. Life is worth living. Think positive. Alienation is omnipresent. Neoliberal discourse requires you to be subservient to the greater system of capital and the easiest way towards this is the instilment of comfort, of pleasant nullity, the circumscription of emotional capacity and reflectivity. Suicidal thoughts are abnormal, because life is worth living. Eat your packaged food item and watch Netflix. For a drop into water to be fatal, it has to be 250 feet. Try to aim for your head to maximise brain injury. The most prominent suicide spot around here has a drop of 100 feet. They cordoned it off anyway. Your life doesn’t belong to you. The first time I tried to suicide my mother asked ‘why would you do that?’ as if it was the dumbest thing in the world. The second time, the doctor looked at me in an exasperated manner and prescribed me lots of drugs. Geettt bettterrrr. Nobody cares about you, they simply want you to return to normal. Normality as in serving your parents, serving your friends, serving the state, and serving the market. Normality as in not questioning social norms and institutions. Normality as in get a stable job (i.e. compete against other workers in an exploitative, undemocratic system that values and inculcates self-serving desires), get married (preferably to someone of the opposite *** who is middle-class and imbibes European culture), get pregnant/get someone pregnant (but only once or twice, because anyone who has more children than that is backwards), invest in housing (those students and lower-class families need to learn how the world works; really, it’s a benefit to take their money), watch sports (to instil national pride in your children; no son, we didn’t colonise the Pacific Islands, keep watching the man with the wooden stick hit ***** eat out every week (preferably exotic restaurants), go see the world (preferably exotic locations, so you can be served by exotic people, take in exotic sights, then leave without considering where any of your money has gone to, whether any of it has reached the slums, whether the beach you lay on is accessible to the people living there, or whether it has been privatised by the tourist firm so that only rich tourists like yourself can lie on it), join a club (those capitalists were innocent, it was the indigenous folk that were making a ruckus over the new golf course; it’s not like we’ve been colonising their land and culture for the past three centuries), donate to charity (but never any charity desiring systemic change; that’s crazy), consume, always consume (keeps the economy going; why question the desire for infinite growth in a world with limited land, resources and markets?), replace your phone every year (those poor workers in Asia need our help), repeat to the point of nausea. The most successful method to suicide is a shotgun to the head; high calibre, slug rounds. Of course, with all these methods, the chance of failing may leave you disfigured, paralysed, mentally disabled or physically crippled (spinal damage, broken limbs, failed organs), with no guarantee that your family, or even your state, will allow for euthanasia. After all, the popular discourse paints suicide as selfish—an irony, considering liberalism places the self first and society second. It is viewed as sinful regardless of context—deontologically detached from anomie, alienation, material deprivation, social pressures, psychological affectations, any cause or structure. Life is worth living. This ignores that the subject is situated in existence. The subject moves through existence to live. Life, then, is the totality of the subject’s interactions. It cannot be universalised into a single state or judgement that merges all subjectivities into a catch-all worthiness. Worth is dependent of the subject. I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe I just want everyone to **** themselves, because the world is ****** and the majority of people are ******* it worse. Most people think being nice makes them good. They turn blind to the systems of oppression they partake in. A while ago my mother was asking if I’d heard about the mass suicides happening at Foxconn, the largest electronics manufacturer in the world. This year she showed me her new iPhone. I don’t ******* understand. I don’t understand how people can be outraged at humanity abuses, yet do ******* nothing to help or change their ways. Yes, market solutions are ******* **** but these commodities are still coming from somewhere, and while capitalism is in place, our money is still flowing back. I don’t understand how people can be concerned about ecological issues, then pour dishwashing liquid down the sink every night, dissolving the gills, eyes, and organs of fish in rivers and oceans. I don’t understand a ******* thing. I feel physically sick most days. I can barely function outside of university, because engaging with real people, in real systems, just reminds me of how careless, worthless, and disgusting they are. When I first turned vegan, my dad simply said plants are living too. Well no ******* **** dad, why didn’t you ask me my reason for turning vegan, rather than simply repeating the dumb **** everyone else says? If you were stuck on a desert island. Well I’m ******* not. I’m stuck on this **** world filled with nice people who don’t give a **** about anything. I’m stuck every week walking the same roads, to the same university, where I become more and more distanced from reality through abstract philosophical theories that no one else cares about. I’m stuck walking through the supermarket every week, to purchase overpriced commodities produced by transnational corporations I don’t support, but nonetheless have to buy to survive. What alternatives I buy are mocked because it's so funny being ethical in our day and age. Because it’s so much more normal eating pies, and drinking beer, and treating women like objects, and affirming nationalistic sentiments of white supremacy, and making fun of ethnic minorities while they’re incarcerated, and beaten, and killed. All lives matter, the liberal conservatives cry out, while doing ******* nothing to help any cause. I don’t understand this world, and I have no desire to be in it if this is all there is.
0
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
mitakiharashi
**** Yourself
Barbiturate is one of the few drugs capable of killing you painlessly, so of course the state has banned it. Instead we get paracetamol, a ****** over-the-counter painkiller that leaves you in pain for up to five days while your liver and kidneys shut down. Suicide prevention is a ******* joke. Secular appropriations of Christian values that assume life is worthwhile, whether you desire it or not. It’s long been known that rates of suicide rose dramatically with the birth of modernity—techno-scientific paradise for the middle-class which stresses efficiency over existence. New forms of automation, the human body disciplined into repetitious acts, the partitioning of workspaces so that no single worker could operate the whole—so that any worker could be fired and replaced with the minimum amount of training necessary for capital to continue circulating. The body is individualised, scrutinised, and punished by rich kids playing panopticon, so that any mass agitation is coerced into silence through the threat of destitution. Slitting your wrists barely succeeds and more likely than not leaves you with tendon and muscle damage. Catalytic converters in cars now convert carbon monoxide into harmless CO2 and H2O. Drowning is one of the most painful ways to die. You cannot escape. The state places helpline numbers around suicide spots to treat life after the fact, rather than at the source of suffering. Vocal band-aids, ****** ******* aphorisms that seek to revert you back into a happy state-serving commodity. Things will get better. Life is worth living. Think positive. Alienation is omnipresent. Neoliberal discourse requires you to be subservient to the greater system of capital and the easiest way towards this is the instilment of comfort, of pleasant nullity, the circumscription of emotional capacity and reflectivity. Suicidal thoughts are abnormal, because life is worth living. Eat your packaged food item and watch Netflix. For a drop into water to be fatal, it has to be 250 feet. Try to aim for your head to maximise brain injury. The most prominent suicide spot around here has a drop of 100 feet. They cordoned it off anyway. Your life doesn’t belong to you. The first time I tried to suicide my mother asked ‘why would you do that?’ as if it was the dumbest thing in the world. The second time, the doctor looked at me in an exasperated manner and prescribed me lots of drugs. Geettt bettterrrr. Nobody cares about you, they simply want you to return to normal. Normality as in serving your parents, serving your friends, serving the state, and serving the market. Normality as in not questioning social norms and institutions. Normality as in get a stable job (i.e. compete against other workers in an exploitative, undemocratic system that values and inculcates self-serving desires), get married (preferably to someone of the opposite *** who is middle-class and imbibes European culture), get pregnant/get someone pregnant (but only once or twice, because anyone who has more children than that is backwards), invest in housing (those students and lower-class families need to learn how the world works; really, it’s a benefit to take their money), watch sports (to instil national pride in your children; no son, we didn’t colonise the Pacific Islands, keep watching the man with the wooden stick hit ***** eat out every week (preferably exotic restaurants), go see the world (preferably exotic locations, so you can be served by exotic people, take in exotic sights, then leave without considering where any of your money has gone to, whether any of it has reached the slums, whether the beach you lay on is accessible to the people living there, or whether it has been privatised by the tourist firm so that only rich tourists like yourself can lie on it), join a club (those capitalists were innocent, it was the indigenous folk that were making a ruckus over the new golf course; it’s not like we’ve been colonising their land and culture for the past three centuries), donate to charity (but never any charity desiring systemic change; that’s crazy), consume, always consume (keeps the economy going; why question the desire for infinite growth in a world with limited land, resources and markets?), replace your phone every year (those poor workers in Asia need our help), repeat to the point of nausea. The most successful method to suicide is a shotgun to the head; high calibre, slug rounds. Of course, with all these methods, the chance of failing may leave you disfigured, paralysed, mentally disabled or physically crippled (spinal damage, broken limbs, failed organs), with no guarantee that your family, or even your state, will allow for euthanasia. After all, the popular discourse paints suicide as selfish—an irony, considering liberalism places the self first and society second. It is viewed as sinful regardless of context—deontologically detached from anomie, alienation, material deprivation, social pressures, psychological affectations, any cause or structure. Life is worth living. This ignores that the subject is situated in existence. The subject moves through existence to live. Life, then, is the totality of the subject’s interactions. It cannot be universalised into a single state or judgement that merges all subjectivities into a catch-all worthiness. Worth is dependent of the subject. I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe I just want everyone to **** themselves, because the world is ****** and the majority of people are ******* it worse. Most people think being nice makes them good. They turn blind to the systems of oppression they partake in. A while ago my mother was asking if I’d heard about the mass suicides happening at Foxconn, the largest electronics manufacturer in the world. This year she showed me her new iPhone. I don’t ******* understand. I don’t understand how people can be outraged at humanity abuses, yet do ******* nothing to help or change their ways. Yes, market solutions are ******* **** but these commodities are still coming from somewhere, and while capitalism is in place, our money is still flowing back. I don’t understand how people can be concerned about ecological issues, then pour dishwashing liquid down the sink every night, dissolving the gills, eyes, and organs of fish in rivers and oceans. I don’t understand a ******* thing. I feel physically sick most days. I can barely function outside of university, because engaging with real people, in real systems, just reminds me of how careless, worthless, and disgusting they are. When I first turned vegan, my dad simply said plants are living too. Well no ******* **** dad, why didn’t you ask me my reason for turning vegan, rather than simply repeating the dumb **** everyone else says? If you were stuck on a desert island. Well I’m ******* not. I’m stuck on this **** world filled with nice people who don’t give a **** about anything. I’m stuck every week walking the same roads, to the same university, where I become more and more distanced from reality through abstract philosophical theories that no one else cares about. I’m stuck walking through the supermarket every week, to purchase overpriced commodities produced by transnational corporations I don’t support, but nonetheless have to buy to survive. What alternatives I buy are mocked because it's so funny being ethical in our day and age. Because it’s so much more normal eating pies, and drinking beer, and treating women like objects, and affirming nationalistic sentiments of white supremacy, and making fun of ethnic minorities while they’re incarcerated, and beaten, and killed. All lives matter, the liberal conservatives cry out, while doing ******* nothing to help any cause. I don’t understand this world, and I have no desire to be in it if this is all there is.
Continue reading...
5
We do not pine for just one day where the markets, morality, or technology tune themselves in perfect harmony We say the future's now if we unite in just one way: **the acknowledgment that we have the will and machinery to feed, clothe, house, and heal every human being** Who cares if they find a wage Let's "let anyone follow their dreams" be the creed of Earthlings I'll have much more a fun time going to my neighbor's for beers if they spent their days doing what their inner child intended Pipe dream, much? Acknowledgment our task's a process another must, even when we feel so close What's your story other than the idea that authority's some natural right? The Government and the Propertied Working together or against each other forever in eternity (the Capitalists are the biggest Marxist narrow minds who refuse to hear Karlo's ending)
0
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
kageysage
The Letter "A"
We do not pine for just one day where the markets, morality, or technology tune themselves in perfect harmony We say the future's now if we unite in just one way: **the acknowledgment that we have the will and machinery to feed, clothe, house, and heal every human being** Who cares if they find a wage Let's "let anyone follow their dreams" be the creed of Earthlings I'll have much more a fun time going to my neighbor's for beers if they spent their days doing what their inner child intended Pipe dream, much? Acknowledgment our task's a process another must, even when we feel so close What's your story other than the idea that authority's some natural right? The Government and the Propertied Working together or against each other forever in eternity (the Capitalists are the biggest Marxist narrow minds who refuse to hear Karlo's ending)
Continue reading...
25
Human directives, veracities unverified   Bellies belching with anger, murderers Udders dripping hate, foundling banters Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink Tear motions and debates of inequality My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield Emergency alarms sirens from 2003 The indefinite complications and hunger A land of the displaced, starving nomads Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws Inhumane human interrogations persists A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve Force-feeding, torturous measures applied All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed A Rwanda slain in divide and rule Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves Machetes slashing necks and hands A lust of power, a genocide slaughter The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch Autocratic regime boring divisions Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill Indifference pooled in pits and camps The institutional social indoctrination The honor and killing to expose shame The violation and dishonor of moral fabric For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit Confessional secrets of only what lays within A torment watching witnesses, all dangling Marxists calls ships to stow ashore Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit Invalid contracts awaits signatures The white immigrants to be enslaved All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor Wage packages taken to pay for freedom Humans bought and sold to be owned Slaves yorked and counted as assets Bounded to serve plantations and homes A human, non human, a chattel, a slave A debt ******* offended and ***** Untamed and made to obey a master A falling global strings unturned Tunes strumming hate, war and pain Human trafficking, violence, inequality Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists Commercialism, zero hour contracts For if we have no rights, I have none For if we have no peace I have none
0
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
SassyJ
Cruel Inhumane Autocracies
Human directives, veracities unverified   Bellies belching with anger, murderers Udders dripping hate, foundling banters Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink Tear motions and debates of inequality My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield Emergency alarms sirens from 2003 The indefinite complications and hunger A land of the displaced, starving nomads Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws Inhumane human interrogations persists A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve Force-feeding, torturous measures applied All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed A Rwanda slain in divide and rule Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves Machetes slashing necks and hands A lust of power, a genocide slaughter The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch Autocratic regime boring divisions Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill Indifference pooled in pits and camps The institutional social indoctrination The honor and killing to expose shame The violation and dishonor of moral fabric For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit Confessional secrets of only what lays within A torment watching witnesses, all dangling Marxists calls ships to stow ashore Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit Invalid contracts awaits signatures The white immigrants to be enslaved All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor Wage packages taken to pay for freedom Humans bought and sold to be owned Slaves yorked and counted as assets Bounded to serve plantations and homes A human, non human, a chattel, a slave A debt ******* offended and ***** Untamed and made to obey a master A falling global strings unturned Tunes strumming hate, war and pain Human trafficking, violence, inequality Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists Commercialism, zero hour contracts For if we have no rights, I have none For if we have no peace I have none
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55
Boring old militant Marxist Farts who blather on, in fits and starts about class war and revolution (demonstrably a failed solution) rather than pitied should be scorned; their websites tapped, subscribers warned. Such talk begins as plodding fodder dull as lead – yet even odder: people read this wretched dreck! History ought to hold in check their pawn-shop plans to topple kings they talk a good game – till it brings armed madness, rage, the peasant wars thugs and riff-raff looting stores, death-camps, purges, civil chaos union dues, returned to pay us ****** end to a treacherous story – guns for butter and guts for glory. Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick as honey dripping on a corpse. Centralized control that warps a free man’s mind. And yet they find their audience loaded, pumped and primed. In spite of numberless essays the true believer bucks and brays hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon, urging buyers to the bargain: shining paths – that lead to graveyards strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards. Endless screeds by tenured traitors : dialectic masturbators… Marxist dullness has its edge. Boring – yes, but forms a wedge to split the status quo in factions gaining time to plan their actions. Arm in arms; so sad it tickles – hammering plowshares into sickles battering bewildered readers (propagandized bottom-feeders). Red conjecture never softens pounded in like nails in coffins, though their pipe-dreams burn away when exposed by light of day. Communist theory rings the blows to forge the chains. The movement grows. It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link ensnaring those ***** prone to think they know what’s best for rank and file, propagandizing all the while. Agitating Marxist praxis forms their struggle’s central axis. Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them zeal, devotion, earnest madness… but their ends begin in badness. Brooding hate – their only god, biding time to shoot their *** Nip their notions in the bud before they blossom into blood. Point them out for what they are: faceless scribes of future war. Worst of all: they’re as predictable as their theories are inflictable. Gaze into the hole of history comprehend the tragic mystery…
0
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
connecthook
Militant Marxist Farts
Boring old militant Marxist Farts who blather on, in fits and starts about class war and revolution (demonstrably a failed solution) rather than pitied should be scorned; their websites tapped, subscribers warned. Such talk begins as plodding fodder dull as lead – yet even odder: people read this wretched dreck! History ought to hold in check their pawn-shop plans to topple kings they talk a good game – till it brings armed madness, rage, the peasant wars thugs and riff-raff looting stores, death-camps, purges, civil chaos union dues, returned to pay us ****** end to a treacherous story – guns for butter and guts for glory. Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick as honey dripping on a corpse. Centralized control that warps a free man’s mind. And yet they find their audience loaded, pumped and primed. In spite of numberless essays the true believer bucks and brays hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon, urging buyers to the bargain: shining paths – that lead to graveyards strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards. Endless screeds by tenured traitors : dialectic masturbators… Marxist dullness has its edge. Boring – yes, but forms a wedge to split the status quo in factions gaining time to plan their actions. Arm in arms; so sad it tickles – hammering plowshares into sickles battering bewildered readers (propagandized bottom-feeders). Red conjecture never softens pounded in like nails in coffins, though their pipe-dreams burn away when exposed by light of day. Communist theory rings the blows to forge the chains. The movement grows. It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link ensnaring those ***** prone to think they know what’s best for rank and file, propagandizing all the while. Agitating Marxist praxis forms their struggle’s central axis. Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them zeal, devotion, earnest madness… but their ends begin in badness. Brooding hate – their only god, biding time to shoot their *** Nip their notions in the bud before they blossom into blood. Point them out for what they are: faceless scribes of future war. Worst of all: they’re as predictable as their theories are inflictable. Gaze into the hole of history comprehend the tragic mystery…
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66
Yong Marx, yet to die, jumped out of an air-conditioned car, a journey Berlin to Bombay as the Dream merchant of Utopia metamorphosed him into a subhuman white bearded national bourgeoisie. The third world girl who was climbing a tree without Motorcycle- Diaries hung to her clothe looked like an Engelian mistake possibly not from Cuba, Zambia or Bolivia, certainly not a Soviet artefact. Alienation, self-affirmation and all unlike modes of production confused his surplus brain. The dichotomy of imaginings and reality with the girl proven anti-thesis kafkaesqued him an added ****** struggle. A shift in his struggle with a smile on her lips gave a hint of welcome to her Animal Farm. He did get inside. The moulded furniture, preoccupied sickle and the lacking exploitation left him a disappointing proletariat grin. She opened her mouth, blue words did not discharge. Neither the mid wife nor the revolution pumped her conscience. He got up, disappointed, alarmed, cursed the chap who misdirected to a class-less renewed pattern. “Comrade” she said shaking his hands, the blood did stir for a moment but the fight less slant , **** suits and her distant reality pained the rationalist. The amusingly alienated young Marx jumped into his car and left for utopia.
0
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Gaye
When Marx came home
Yong Marx, yet to die, jumped out of an air-conditioned car, a journey Berlin to Bombay as the Dream merchant of Utopia metamorphosed him into a subhuman white bearded national bourgeoisie. The third world girl who was climbing a tree without Motorcycle- Diaries hung to her clothe looked like an Engelian mistake possibly not from Cuba, Zambia or Bolivia, certainly not a Soviet artefact. Alienation, self-affirmation and all unlike modes of production confused his surplus brain. The dichotomy of imaginings and reality with the girl proven anti-thesis kafkaesqued him an added ****** struggle. A shift in his struggle with a smile on her lips gave a hint of welcome to her Animal Farm. He did get inside. The moulded furniture, preoccupied sickle and the lacking exploitation left him a disappointing proletariat grin. She opened her mouth, blue words did not discharge. Neither the mid wife nor the revolution pumped her conscience. He got up, disappointed, alarmed, cursed the chap who misdirected to a class-less renewed pattern. “Comrade” she said shaking his hands, the blood did stir for a moment but the fight less slant , **** suits and her distant reality pained the rationalist. The amusingly alienated young Marx jumped into his car and left for utopia.
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36
Most of us are poor when it comes to the currency of retweets. We are unworthy, at the bottom of the Twitter feed, Swimming in a stream littered with what is trending. Rafting whitewater every time BuzzFeed tweets: *Follow the bouncing lamb Vine account immediately.* Bots multiply: I want a #lamb and we're drowning. CHOO CHOO! It’s moving. QUICK. JUMP ON, the steamboat of salacious content is LEAVING. I say: Let's fight the current; Stop being slaves to click-bait; Start a revolution with 140 characters. @KarlMarx Topple the Verified Twitter users.
0
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
courtney-pruitt
Topple the Verified Twitter users.
Most of us are poor when it comes to the currency of retweets. We are unworthy, at the bottom of the Twitter feed, Swimming in a stream littered with what is trending. Rafting whitewater every time BuzzFeed tweets: *Follow the bouncing lamb Vine account immediately.* Bots multiply: I want a #lamb and we're drowning. CHOO CHOO! It’s moving. QUICK. JUMP ON, the steamboat of salacious content is LEAVING. I say: Let's fight the current; Stop being slaves to click-bait; Start a revolution with 140 characters. @KarlMarx Topple the Verified Twitter users.
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34
jokes, no limits everybody needs to laugh, to dream so let's rush and get away spend the weekend with vampires extroverts not needed just need a friend to get by (or i'd probably go insane) read, write, listen with me don't think i don't care about you: of all the somethings and someones, nothing compares to this, to you
0
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
kurt-kanawa
Do Internet Friends Dream of Electric Sheep?
jokes, no limits everybody needs to laugh, to dream so let's rush and get away spend the weekend with vampires extroverts not needed just need a friend to get by (or i'd probably go insane) read, write, listen with me don't think i don't care about you: of all the somethings and someones, nothing compares to this, to you
Continue reading...
11