"anarchistic" poems
"What the ****
Why is it that as soon as a topic gets religious
there are contradictions every third word?
Christian punk;
although Punk is Anarchistic and Marxist;
christian Punk isn't."
Jesus ******* Christ.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
he was radicalized in
the marshes of Vietnam
when they told him to fire
his loaded gun at a
group of school children
a dissident who
marched on Washington
with a Reverend and a King
and read Žižek Zinn and
Chomsky's reflections on direct
action and anarchistic philosophy
a staunch opponent of
police brutality in his
fifties he protested the
****** of Rodney King
he did not go quietly
into the black abyss but
raged against a putrescent
apparatus obsessed with control
he died waiting for the Revolution
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
It is a sad, sad story
for the successes of the past do not fare to serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is a nationalist sigh of relief
and the arc of our world is divided by invisible lines that cross borders
but across which only poverty **** recorded and scored, shall pass
when the successful liar is preferred to the lonely sage
are we not prepared to accept that which we serve
are we not prepared to eat from the plate we have earned
to sup on anarchistic attitudes, imbibe narcoleptic morality
then purge our selective brutality on the servers
for we have earned this, that which fell into our laps
a modern life made tolerable by the indictments of demagogues
for freedom’s a blight in the nightmares of demagogues
shopkeepers made frightful by the incitement of demagogues
we don’t need rights when we’ve the rightness of demagogues
we know they are liars, but are they successful liars?
we know they start fires so they can be better seen
presiding over the funereal pyre of our former freedom
some bishop of hate and self-interest raised up by our fear
to a pulpit of nations drawn low by wage slavery
to a podium impatient for their arrogant knavery
to a rostrum of hatred unsated by gross economic products
to a minbar frustrated by allegations and false prophets
It is a sad, sad story
for our past failures, our careless disregard will not serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is the demagogues rise to belief
we are weakest only when we are weak
and no backs will lift this burden but our own
A sad story indeed
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
me made a pact,
more respect,
less attack,
That's what keeps you in tact,
Not being sarcastic,
Not being narcissistic,
But this is anarchistic,
This is chaotic.
Rhymes caustic,
I'm a fanatic,
Your rhymes antique,
Yes, i'm a freak.
You stay on your side,
i stay in mine,
You lied,
what a swine
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
If a man is only as good as his word,
then I want to marry a man with a vocabulary like yours.
The way you say dicey and delectable and octogenarian
in the same sentence— that really turns me on.
The way you describe the oranges in your backyard
using anarchistic and intimate in the same breath.
I would follow the legato and staccato of your tongue
wrapping around your diction
until listening become more like dreaming
and dreaming became more like kissing you.
I want to jump off the cliff of your voice
into the suicide of your stream of consciousness.
I want to visit the place in your heart where the wrong words die.
I want to map it out with a dictionary and points
of brilliant light until it looks more like a star chart
than a strategy for communication.
I want to see where your words are born.
I want to find a pattern in the astrology.
I want to memorize the scripts of your seductions.
I want to live in the long-winded epics of your disappointments,
in the haiku of your epiphanies.
I want to know all the names you’ve given your desires.
I want to find my name among them,
‘cause there is nothing more wrecking **** than the right word.
I want to thank whoever told you
there was no such thing as a synonym.
I want to throw a party for the heartbreak
that turned you into a poet.
And if it is true that a man is only as good as his word
then, sweet jesus, let me be there
the first time you are speechless,
and all your explosive wisdom becomes
a burning ball of sun in your throat,
and all you can bring yourself to utter is, oh god, oh god.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
*ok ******** you go in there alone, let's see you drinking a few beers in there, looking forward, walking, as if your eyes were closed.*
gone the woodwinds of old, the old orchestra
in taters... come this anarchistic tribalism
the spawn of capitalism,
without elders or any hierarchic
sensibility of respect, come... come!
it must come... terror on one side
via the enemy's wishes...
corruption on the side of our brethren,
the two culture clash...
yet still i remember the younger me
eager to collect the oeuvre of
iron maiden, prompted by
fear of the dark, later to discover
https://goo.gl/Z5xfLT (afraid to shoot
strangers), later to walk into the forests
alone in the dark, sitting on a fallen tree,
********** myself to bare skin
of the upper body and hearing a branch-snap
saying out-loud: 'no wild animal would come
this close'... in full-glitter moonlight,
then that dog... that dog chasing rabbits...
well, if the dog ain't real, neither are the rabbits...
you tested your Celtic Cerberus on me,
one headed, larger than an irish hound...
the dog... the dog... i just sat there
in the dark, drinking awaiting a hell-swarm...
but indeed a love for a single artist like that...
later came tool and slayer oeuvres...
but iron maiden stole me first...
if it were fear of darkness, why would i double
it by wearing sunglasses?
fear of the dark got me started...
i encapsulated all the productivity from the debut
album through to brave new world...
yes... all of the albums -
but i **** you not, that dog in Bower Wood at night...
Hades was nearby.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
Failure to communicate
I think about all the lonely people and think that life begins at first
You might be one of those lonely people with a sensitive heart trying to avoid all trouble because you know it god **** hurts
When you're one of those lonely people no one wants to know what your problems are worth
As a child I stood cold and lonely watching children playing and laughing but I didn't know them at all which made it worse
I sat in classes ignored by teachers so I'd look out of the windows were the sun warms me then as the sun beamed in I would just let my eyes slowly close and purse
This carried on through out my teenage years just looking and dreaming and sighing and fleeting something to avert what was work in an old dusty joiners shop with faces all disturbed by my presence I was cursed
My hands didn't do what my mind was thinking and when I was thinking I wasn't thinking of what I was supposed to so one Christmas I left with mutual consent versed
I joined the armed forces aged 18 years and begun to realise that there are lonely people and I fitted the army purpose
I was on a driving range and my head was full of what ifs and relieved my semi automatic weapon to my corporal and stood at the end of the line that silence was like a light bulb had burst
A few weeks later I dis-charged myself after taking an overdose of paracetamol that I had procured from a nurse
I was in self destruct mode and everything I tried taking or doing just made my mind feel much deeper depression thoughts grew into nightmares of misery from anarchistic mirth
I lost love for this country and I lost love for the earth.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC