"albino" poems
they’re pouring out of the
woodwork
those pretentious machiavellians
in ailing albino frames
eccentric masked figures
milling about the glow light
like night moths
in a london fog
lunatic gazers
with seeping moles
pinned by frogmen and twine
spider climbers
in hell fire
splitting seams
on the fading
and hideous ink
guards of the perch
stand on hades hand
while monsters and demons
with severed limbs
taunt the condemned
and wanting
souls of the ******
cauldron fire
in blood red sky
silent screams
hack and wheeze
gas lines broken
words unspoken
teetering backwards
in the dark shadows
of a phantom abyss
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 2:08 PM UTC
The Blue Rhinoceros.
So Blue Was He.
The Wind In His Hair.
The World At His Feet.
Once The Blue Rhino,
Who Wasn't Albino,
Ate A Man Named Ringo.
Who Was Writing A Bio.
The Bio He Wrote.
About His Pet Goat.
The Goat Was Quite Royal,
But Wasn't Too Loyal.
The Man Died That Day.
The Rhino Ran Away,
Because The Goat Was a Rhino,
And Not Albino.
Inimical
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
Peter Pan said Wendy -
There's something I want to tell you.
I am neither straight nor bent
But what you might call bendy
Captain Hook stopped reading his e-book and eavesdropped more intently.
Peter knew what his flexible friend meant and spoke to her quite innocently.
Wendy - I am as vanilla as Manilla envelopes in a creamery with whitewashed walls
And identical twin albino Godzillas fighting snow leopards with cue *****
No gimp suit in fifty shades of grey for me.
I am pretty much hormone-free,
More than happy with asexuality,
Playing pirated computer games on one hand
And others' loves that dare not speak their names which fewer understand.
In my world of dreamery certain flights of fancy pass me by.
I love to fly and you Wendy.
And I love you too Peter - Not Everygirl's Ideal of A Real Man.
But I can understand the attraction of Lost Boys and their toys in Neverland.
We've known each other for all these years,
Shared too many troubles, thoughts and fears
To be anything other than in each other's hearts.
If I never visit Neverland again
I know you will always be my closest friend,
What, where, whenever happens
To the bittersweet end.
May we both be dying for an Excellent Adventure,
If not together then separately.
There is nothing better than to know
That you will always be there for me
No matter how we might grow
Into this 21st century.
And one day I may straighten out
But
That's
Not
What
Life's
About.
Captain Hook put down his e-book and Facebooked a friend...............
And that is where our story will end.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
vanishing hope
for consumption as a way of life
obese children shovel pharmaceuticals
down the throats of the infirm
internally developing low-tone hymns
relating to slow death by corporate greed –
albino judicators
pass melanin laws
felonizing the populace
perpetuating the proletariat
while pontificating
on the post 9/11 society –
isolated rabble-rousers
screaming at eggshell walls
dislodge tacks holding together
the fabric of American culture
with ingrown and chewed fingernails
flailing armies
think back to trench warfare –
robust midwives mediate
heated discussions
as the United Nations blindly
support U.S. imperialism
looking for kickbacks
from energy companies
globalization giving all humanity
incurable S.T.D.’s –
the last free house mouse
bounds betwixt the ruins
energetically sniffing the rubble
seeking some small morsel
to satisfy its hunger –
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
I have dreams that I once was
A free majestic albino peacock,
Jewellery trapped under a rock.
I have dreams that I never was.
I have dreams that I once was
An old tree covered in snow,
Winds that took an eastern blow.
I have dreams that I never was.
I have dreams that I once was
A poor little drowning fish,
A silver ring left to tarnish.
I have dreams that I never was.
I have dreams that I once was
A lot of things and one thing,
But I never was anything.
I have dreams that I once was.
--Watercolour
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
Gabby Abrego
I'll never let you go go
unless we go to Mexico
and you be come a hobo!
Then I'll go.
and fetch the so co.
so we can dance to disco
eat enchiladas with adobo
pick the **** out of our Afros!
We'll feel so funky,
the people will get spunky
when we arrive on donkeys,
and ride around their towns!
We'll befriend all the junkies
and give them howler monkeys,
it'll be so funny
we'll laugh until you cry!
Ohh! Gabby Abrego I'll never let you go go
unless I get you prego
then I'll run like mad!
cuz if we had a baby
I'd stop being lazy
get as famous as THE LADY
support you like Eminem did for his baby.
So Never Ever leave me
Or I'll succumb to Scientology
and go even more crazy
my world'd become a mystery.
I'd rather be a rhino
rather be tricked into a *****
rather be married to Bono
in a movie starring J.Lo
be forced to live with Yoko Ono
have red eyes like an albino
than to ever be with out
Gabby Abrego!!!
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 1:01 AM UTC
WE MAY NOT BE THE PERFECT PEOPLE
NO
****
WE'RE ALL ****** UP
BE WE WILL STAND UP FOR EACH OTHER
CAUSE WHO THE **** ELSE WILL?
WHOSE GONNA TAKE YOUR HAND, WHILE YOU SOB ON THE GROUND, AND PULL YOU UP?
FRIENDS, THATS WHO WILL
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
*some men and women
will scale you from 1 to 10
like they have lived within
the outlines and inlines of your body,
like it's your fault the moon has craters
or a crow was born albino
or death is inevitable
but they have only seen
the curves of your waist
when they should have seen
the curves of your cerebrum,
blooming with constellations on every turn;
they have only seen
the bumps of your biceps
but they should have seen
the bumps of your big heart
pumping rivers of stardust on every cycle
because you are not a 1 nor a 5 nor a 10—
you are a hundred
it is not your fault that
you carry cosmos in your veins;
i am proud of you—
it must be difficult to handle
that much beauty and power
and this is why their scales
only last up to 10—
because they can only see
the milky way
when you are
the whole universe*
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
by Originally Nirvana
verses by Arcassin Burnham
Lets lend a hand, no words to say,
but all you've planned, doesn't ever stay,
vanilla girls, they know what's best for us,
the world , it never rest,
Hello, hello, hello, how low? [x3]
Hello, hello, hello!
With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us
A mulatto
An albino
A mosquito
My libido
Yeah, hey, yay
deal all your faults, and all your dreams,
worth a penny, just wanna stay teens,
you could deal, making plans,
and taking risk, you are the man,
Hello, hello, hello, how low? [x3]
Hello, hello, hello!
With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us
A mulatto
An albino
A mosquito
My libido
Yeah, hey, yay
use to remember, the signs,
I cross the lines apart, not known what was mine,
I took the gun, put it in my mouth,
and I, just thought it out,
Hello, hello, hello, how low? [x3]
Hello, hello, hello!
With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us
A mulatto
An albino
A mosquito
My libido
A Denial [x9].
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,
So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
It all started out so innocently
A thrift store here, a garage sale there
Anyways, Lord knows how bad I needed
The chartreuse rug of that polyester bear
It goes perfect in my kitchen
Though I can barely see the floor
Just need to move a few piles that grew
From me buying trinkets by the score
Some say I'm a crazy hoarder
I've seen the show and I'm not that bad
Anyway who doesn't need
A stuffed albino Siamese cat
Then there's all the broken plates of china
That I got for a steal
If I ever do find my stove again
I'll use them for my next meal
Why ask why I save all these milk jugs
You never do know when
A herd of cattle will be passing through
The middle of my den
You may say crazy hoarder
I may say I think not
When I look at pile after pile
Of all the treasures that I've got
If you ever care to visit
Just step over this, crawl over that
Till you come to that little itty bitty empty spot
Where we can sit back and relax
And have a little chat,
over this this and that,
maybe why it is ducks quack,
is it brains that they lack,
that my friend is whack...
Crazy Hoarder?!?
Don't make me laugh...
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Last year with a heavy heart...
We moved in to this new house..
Human emotions are so confusing..
I am in a country far away from my own,
I don't connect here though,
Still when it comes to moving
First old temporary house seems more mine than the other new one..
Strange..
When we came here,
The house was full of trees..
But strange things happened...
Each day my daughter came back with tiny red beads with no holes in it...
They were perfect red beads
Triangle in shape, slight elevated in the middle..
Each time she came with one my curiosity grew many fold...
After few months. . We got the surprise of our life..
The trees with tiny leaves had brown dried beans..
The fully dried beans had split open and stuck out from it
Were the same red 'beads'.... Today was found they were 'RED BEANS'..
After searching the web.. And settle the curiosity
After breaking each dried beans from the tree..
After storing each red bean..
I found out they are beans of RED SANDALWOOD..
The strange fact too..
In The old times..
Due to uniqueness and perfection of shape
Jewellers used it to measure gold!!
In my quest I found
The seeds are valuable even today..!!
But for me and my daughter it was a treasure of our new house
Memories building for a 'new temporary house'
To make it a loving old house,
The new house which was call "forest"
For it's various insects, bees, & multipedes.. Both brown and albino,
We finally forgot our old house..
We started loving our new house..
Almost after a year we moved in..
We love it equally if not more..
Sparkle In Wisdom'
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:20 PM UTC
Somewhere deep in the skies of Montana
a lonely street corner flickers
casting coded light
upon the distant albino hillside
It was once a great lake
of snow and ice and melt and
unseen by life
It drained and died
and its beautiful lakebed sands
became the hillside
again
to tumble and fall
into valley and time
again
there we built an impermanent road
we pave and pave
maintain
with trucks and slabs of dirt and grain
roaming those Roman roads
again
Somewhere deep in that heartland
the strings that pumped the musculature
of a dying nation
slowly giving way to a violent attack
from within
oxidize and pool
into great tides
to one day see the coast
I am in California
but I see it clearly as a dream
where the great plains meet the mountain face
and the Cheyenne carved their heels into the dirt
for a bit
spirit
eroded into the winds
today the miners spit
at a coffee-town bar
into copper cans
licker than split
Owning the land that shakes
and shifts
redrawing god's lines
with a paper pad and a pen
for a bit
And the dresses the ladies wear shine
lacquered wood and the horses cry
and beside the interstate
the trucks steam and chuff
and their drivers gaze starry-eyed
onward, beyond into the night
beyond those flanking hillsides
to the flat ocean land sponged anew
that left the oil fields in Texas and the tar sands in
Athabasca
set ablaze in the fervor
of a death rattle
American heart
pumping to feed these hillsides
again
for tomorrow we begin.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
oh such few words are minded,
no bravery apart
from the homosexuals
as skeletons in the chronicles of Narnia
being discovered among
the skeletons of tyrannosaurus rex
making a bed with its wheelchair able
paws - and the flag of the Cymru
fire-breathing turtles before excavation
and the myths of the mandarin too;
now tell me the sub-human plot with the
Normans when the anglo-sax reigned
to teach me to unlearn english
to avoid assimilation,
like you taught your former colonial subjects
to integrate and to alievate keeping assimilation:
which you taught to unlearn the mother's
tongue and learn a discrimination
against furthering the multi-cultural project...
which you taught to integrate and
keep at loss a sacred soul of never assimilating
akin to jew...integrate i must,
assimilate i care not for should i be totally
albino or asserting bleached with peace:
albino oder beteuern gebleicht mit frieden.
integrate i must to utilise the coinage
but to assimilate i must turn into a reggae african
with roots in the Caribbean than the Ivory Coast...
and god willing i will not claim to be
an arab's brother to settle karma over
uplifting the curse over Mecca with ibn Saud's
clock-tower; burn!!!
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
Most people grow gardens with flowers and peas.
But I am not most people.
My garden is rather unique.
Come quickly outside if you dare take a peek.
Follow me out the door
but don't be too hasty
I will return you here looking awfully pasty.
Into the woods we go
with a feeling of unease
remind yourself you may turn 'round if you please.
You wear an expression of bravery
plastered to your face
I'll warn you that is entirely out of place.
My garden lies far, far away
The entrance: this long narrow path
Upon return I suggest a nice lukewarm bath.
We march on silently
Straight to my clearing
Where all that dwells is hardly endearing.
We arrive at gates
I push them wide open
and glance at your face, the expression most potent.
You stare out at my garden
Your weary eyes cautious
Searching for normality with obvious malice.
There is nothing of that sort to be found here.
So sorry to disappoint you, my dear.
From the unicorn pasture
to the golden archer
near the tentacle bed
and the swooping vulture
Round the corner lives my large pet dino
being lead by a petite albino
by the pond grows my crop of egg head
while nearby lies a heard of enormous sized rhino
Your gaze falls on my pink sparkly pegasus
being rode by a tiara topped princess
on a field of grass that is blood-red
bordering a lake worthy of the great greek god Isis.
As I watch your face change with shock and a pinch of delight
I see you won't put up a fight
You'll help me grow and raise my unparalleled garden
You might even defend it and be my trusty warden.
All that matters is that my garden is safe.
And to be honest, I couldn't be happier.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
to wound me with an arrow
take a lurid one
you're high on the barrow
watching how scare I run
burst out of usual shadows
like one-eyed albino ghoul
only to see changing weather
by unintelligible rules
sick of Gulliver's syndrome
from living in a wooden box
where's my abandoned kingdom
I'm fed up with these rocks
so try to aim, warden
I'm not that beast of burden
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
He had a clock in his stomach
Time is a hungry crocodile
After eating your hand
And learning he likes the taste
That is when the arthritis kicked in
Or the unexplainable pain
Caused by a broken wrist
Or maybe just aching joints in the cold
I think of all the times I wanted to sever my own shadow
Question my presence
Even in moments of light
Where do I stand
If I cast no shade?
There is a boy
Who one time for hours
Pointed at a can of pringles
In the hopes that he could make it move
With only his mind
The bike he learned to ride on
Had flat tires
He one time shaved down and spiked the back of his head
Then grew his bangs out and dreaded them
He had an albino rat named snowflake
Those were his angsty years
Then he found this crocodile
And it was so cool
And it ticked like a time bomb
It didn’t hurt him or anything
So he kept it
Until one night it tried to eat him in his sleep
So he ran
But maybe it thought he was its mother
Or love wasn’t enough
Or it was just mean
He wonders if his got hungry too early
Burning bridges at both ends
Forcing him to jump in the middle
He was a darling child
And he was lost for a while
Then he was found
By a crocodile
With a clock in its belly
And really
Who doesn’t want a pet crocodile?
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
the snow, white
soft like an albino Afro
then the compacted crystalline crunch
cracked under the weight of a human foot.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 4:21 AM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
child of two moons
the harvest wheat grows
diamonds
on its stalks
daughter of the broken king
your carousel’s chained bears and albino
peacocks scream at night for
their release
lonely lover
the keyhole is rusted since he last
touched you
the oil getting rancid
martyred saint
your doe heart has an arrow of Cupid’s
skewering through a demon’s
confession written in fire
weeping widow
your maid took your cup of tears
to water the lilies giving
root at his grave
sanguine seamstress
do not stitch the bird’s
wing that has bashed
out its brains
non-existent soul mate
your fingerprints stain
my poems
with star grease
lover whose number I lost track of
I feel your footsteps ricochet
within my bones please
stop running I’m trying to sleep
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
Please forgive me
My dear loveless
Broken hearted
Ember of the sun
I still love you
My dear loveless
Broken hearted
ember of the sun
When I was gone
And I lost you
I learned you’re the one
My dear loveless
Broken hearted
ember of the sun
I will love you
Now and forever
But I have foiled our love
Now you’ll hate me
I’ve forsaken thee
My dear loveless
Broken hearted
ember of the sun
My dear loveless
Broken hearted
Ember of the sun
I remember
how we felt there
In each others arms
So completely
So safely
Each other’s star
So as you go on
living and loving
Think of me the same
Your clumsy wallflower
Your Crazed albino
I am yours til the end.
I wish the best for
My dear loveless
broken hearted
Ember of the sun
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 6:08 AM UTC
Revival of a revolutionary spirit
What I represent?
Dem single mother ******* children
Uneducated, unmotivated, and poverty stricken
Moma pay da rent, da car note, den broke, da game sumtm' slick
So I'm young BLACK and angry, real thug-life *****
Infested communities of drugs and guns thats brought in by the government
So before I move a pack o pull a trigga just tryna win
I'm already guilty, 'until proven innocent'
Ain't dat a *****
The days as slaves and Jim Crow's segregated ways have passed,
Dey sayin'
But I only see it disguised now as a 'color blind' racial caste system
Crooked politicians and sellouts oppressing dey own kin
In the 'pursuit of happiness'
They're privatising prisons for capital
Mass incarceration
How could another life be property?
With a loss of civil rights, even after release
Take it ha you wona
I'm anti-colonialism
Everywhere the 'Albino' go he **** the land and oppress the people
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:58 PM UTC
To be chanted whenever the O Machine 1 fails:
Rumor has it that the Enigma
Was to Churchill a foul stigma
And that the ancient, creaking Babbage
It was to him but so much cabbage
Colossus One and Colossus Two
Those gadgets too he began to rue
They say he let them rust and rot -
The pity is that he did not
(I checked with the Lizard People on this – Churchill’s secret Second World War computers, powered by a primordial Lemurian source of energy so dangerous that even speaking its name in the ancient language of the Atlanteans is said to be fatal, are secured in a locked vault on Oak Island and guarded around the clock (set to Martian time) by the Trilateral Masonic-Vatican Continuum of deadly albino flying fish.)
1 E.M. Forster, “The Machine Stops,” 1909, Much-anthologized
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC