Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
i just lamented a more complex version of this; i just cannot  believe we denote the same thing in order to share an understanding of  the same by denoting as such, but when acting we feel so differently  about it; imagine the noun iran in the mouth of an american, then  picture the verbs subsequent... then imagine the noun america in the  mouth of an iranian, then picture the verbs subsequent: words hold as  much emotion as actions discard, even though the actions are worded, and  the words are almost imaginary when concerned with what iraq was when  given belshazzar.*

i wonder if as many people would **** or die
for the noun apple, as they do for allah -
say the noun apple... apple apple apple long enough...
will you get apple juice? well no, so if you keep on saying
the noun allah allah... will that thing materialise?
the imaginary atheistic sense
of the word allah, is that humanity
turned the noun allah into a verb
of its own chosing due to man's free will,
i.e., say allah casually over coffee,
now say allah in jihad clothing...
the same noun among diverse verbs...
might as well invent a new grammatical
category of nouns and verbs mingling...
nouverbs... what noun invokes what action,
consolidated in what are excesses of adjectives,
given the quality of a life lived -
the man who casually said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in denmark managed to integrate
into danish society and start up a newspaper...
the man in syria who "casually" said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in syria didn't manage the former...
because his orientation of the noun
changed the path of the sequence of nouns / beheaded nuns,
since the cutting of the word verb,
managed to craft non-verbum-ergo-actio.
in defence of avoiding one’s own mortality,
one speaks against one’s own death,
thus one speaks with the enemy of the people
one shares a life with, for a fake chance of the feeling of prolonging.
Ishtar Jan 2017
Having to sustain,
my breathing, a hellish landscape,
where all of them dwell
no further than surfaces...

Industry, enterprises,
companies, businesses,
what a diplomatic way
to keep us slave...

Everybody notices,
Nobody cares,
as long as their dishes are full,
of the polymers they emulate food with...

Wealth and democracy are a placebo,
I'm fed up with it, not taking it anymore,
never took it again, from a while now...

My hopes lie far away,
where none of them can notice,
that I'm higher on thoughts,
higher than them, no envy anymore.

do you think you are free?
dis-attach, learn to fight and go away,
where no man can find you...
René Mutumé Oct 2014
I have said to you:
either we make the bible again, and laugh!
about my ideas!

Or, there is always a country made of shatter
the country smoked by reversed pride on fire;
blood has time to adjust, but not the poem

Poems are the tattoos of politics and love
they forget,
we do it.
Kurt Philip Behm Dec 2021
The Agent Intellect…
God speaking loud
Aquinas his servant,
empirically proud

Action is needed,
the soul lies in wait
The body left wanting
—new pearls for the gate

(Villanova University: December, 2021)
Ken Pepiton Apr 2022
Shame on you, says who,
I ask me?
I know, me, eh, watchman,

what of the night, one day comin'
not like the rest, the other days,
I mean,
says he, who watches
sunsets and refuses to count planets
as stars, see.
position your watcher to see the expanse,
as a vast dome,
set above us, to mark up, when first we learn
from  down, up look, learn to stand
reach for those, we think as
crawlers we all was, mewling crawlers we was,
beggars as near as history can sort out,
then come war and
we was elevated, first rank, lowest, but in
the fight for the oath of allegiance,
as yet unclear what that is, but
discipline is how a killer is formed from sod.

All the busters. and buddies, and cowpokes
learned to march and listen for that certain sound
- the certain call to fall back, listen, listen

run away and live to fight another day,
or stand and die, for king and country,
God is watching,
what you choose,
- boys of my sort were fed Imperial War movies,
- I cried in Gunga Dinh and
- for the coward in three white feathers
- Saturday Matinee as a class, we all cheered
- when the bugle announced the cavalry,
- the men on horses, to whom all boys look up.

enemies surround you, Jesus winks, and you choose,
forgive my debts as I forgive my debtors,
love my enemy as my self

oops. Imagine the madness in self hate,
eek out a living untangling the knots that bind your
estimation of the cost to form you,
from the dust, believe the scientist, you are star
dust, powers less but to spark a thought

and fit it to a what if… just now

imagine you hold such truth as self evidence,
you accepted the way life is true,
and lived after then to now.
In you, living reading you.
Silent spring or no, who can say
time tells on mortals who promise proof.

Happy Spring, says the sign in the post office,
and I think, yes,
that is the whole idea, life goes on lying about hell.

After ignoring the referee's call to reboot, perplexity
sweeping for all the lies you know you told,
- once those cease to reflect back on me
then the ones you learned as true, are easier to see,
the lies you learned as true, are dull at night…

playing hide and seek with nameless cousins
who used a sigking's x.

Think the child's thought. Am I lying, we all die.
No king's x in war, kid.

Magic steals attention, and returns it as surpassing
in children's laughter,
- it was all a video game, Slime Rancher
my house. 2022… background noise
laughing chilren
the actio-teleo go rhythm in wonder we lose
wanna bet, nobody has a hell for *** smokers,
not really

--- casino virgins, too holy,
but for the buffet,
some may take the free play, say
take the devil's money and pay back

-- what our fathers took, but
we never stole, we took as given, for being born
as 'merican takers, useless eaters,
lest we plow,
and plant
as given, granted
by the same authorities who
used our sons as Maxim fodder, over there,
over there, we all sing,
the yanks are coming, rah rah buy bonds,

bitter, hell no, sweet, remembering
those red buddy poppies,
a man with no legs
gave one to me,
once around 1951, when I was as tall as he,
he was sitting, like his legs was out in front,
but there was a basket with those poppies,
no legs, so no feet, no shoes.
I think it was an old Easter basket,
filled with red paper poppies with green paper
wrapped around a wire stem,

he was old as my uncle Malcom, who also
went to France, and also remembers
those red paper poppies, I suppose.
The idea beneath the hopes some claim. I suppose.

— The End —