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Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
How we start is only part of what we eventually do.

Physically that's easy to see. Being human, adamkind,
we see weak starts often in life.
Colts or pups born a week too soon can be loved to lives as pampered pets,
Siring toys for the enjoyment of those who can afford to fuel them,
For generations, with never a single care,
Past that initial trauma and subsequent subjugation to the will of man.

I don't tell horse stories, dog stories or war stories, if I can keep from it.

But when you want to demonstrate the purest of payback,
revenge getting the bad guy in the end,
having a horse be the hero makes behaving like an animal
more noble to the mind of vengeful man.
It's not true, revenge being noble.
That's a very old lie.

Law is to prevent error by disallowing failure. Law.

Relative to the rest of God's creatures, we, adamkind, seem dependent, weak and vulnerable next to bears being weak
a way-less long time
Than we.
We come into this world weak as a baby anything and we stay that way longer
Than any living creature.

I am an American, by birth.
I was not born to a political party or a family with political roots,
"I ain't no Senator's son."
Still,
I was reared drinking mythic cherry wine
sprung from George's failure to lie
Regarding his woodman's knack with a hatchet.

Sitting on the fence rail Abe split,
town fathers where I lived
were said to have decided the most harmonious of towns
have only gainfully employed darker folks,
while white
trash was allowed to loll around because they was
some employer's kin by marriage.

It all seemed pretty normal, as a child.
The loller-arounders let kids listen when they told
Their friends, who could not read, what the newspapers said.

One block from my house there was a vet's and hobo's flop-house clad in corrugated tin, rusted-round the nail-holes all the way to the ground and the rust had spread, so at sunset,...
I only recall the single story shed having one door.
There were always old white men sittin' on the southside of the shed. At sunset, those old men's whispy white hair

appeared as white flowing mare's tale clouds under
a scab-red wall held up by old men with sunset shining faces...

It was a big shed, a low barn, a bunkhouse,
eight or ten 4-foot tin-sheets long on the north and south
Windowless walls.
The one door was on the south side.
Once I saw an old man selling red paper buddy poppies.
He was missing both legs about half-way up his thighs.
The poppy seller rode a square board that had what I think were
Roller-skates, the key-kind, with metal wheels about a 1/2 inch wide.
Nailed to it's bottom. He had handles made from a carpenter's saw
Without it's blade. He pushed himself with those handles.

That looked fun, to a four-year old.
It looks different now-a-days. Knowing
Those red poppies symbolized
The after math automatics of the war to end war.

Who knows the poppy-sellers son? He would be old.
Does he know how his father lost his legs, but lived?
Does he bear the curse of the curse that lost his father's legs?
Does he honor his father's cause or weep at the thought?

Enough is enough.
My family tree branched in America, but only one great grand-parent,
Three generations back from me, was rooted in this land.
My gran'ma's ma, a Choctaw squaw,
That rhymed fine,
But it's not true. My grandma did not know her parents. She was born an orphan,
And her father and mother were likely strangers.

1910 in southwest Arkansas or southeast Oklahoma or northeast Texas or northwest Louisiana
And the color of her skin is all that proved my American heritage.

My grandma was born poor as poor can be,
she never told me how she survived

To survive a 1925 or so car wreck
in eastern Arizona's white mountains.
I never asked what my grandmother knew,
nor how she came to know.

This is my point.
After you and I have gone into forever more,
Our great grand children may wonder
what we did or did not, since we
Are no longer around to give our account.

These days we can leave our story to our great grand children.
Our own children
And our grand children follow us on facebook back to before they were born.
Shall they judge us idlers wielding idle words for laughs,
or  think us knowers of all we found while seeking first the Kingdom of Heaven
In the place Jesus says it is. You know where Jesus said the Kingdom of our kind lies?

The double minded man is unstable in all his ways,
hence Eve and her broader bandwidth corpus colostrum
Come back later, there is a breath system upgrade evolving.

Such changes to the courage of the mind rolls out more slowly
to the root ideas, labouring to find sustenance,
it is a struggle being a radical idea,
we agree, but we have our part,
as do the flowers
and the spore.
Leaven the whole lump, like it or lump it.

The now we live in grew from far deeper roots than
the roots claimed by the
Self-identified nation through it's cartoons/representations of national desires to rally 'round the flag as if it were the fire,
those desires to herd beneath any shelter from the storm,
Your country, your incorporated allegiance
to the inventor and creator and counter of the money under
the protection of the sword and crown representative
of the flame that burns,
The namers of patriot, the rankeers of ideas
who, by their existence,
naturally, over rule you.
Such powers are granted by the individual, not the mob.
You get that?

The desires of the nation over rule the desires of the individuals who
Com-prize the nation.
Whose side are you on, dear reader?

Is the idea we believed believable?
Ex Nihilo, I don't think so because
I can't imagine how now could be
Accidental-ly.

When my hero wore spurs as he went from the jail office to
Miss Kitty's place, (Gunsmoke on A.M. radio)

What did Miss Kitty do?
I had no clue.
In my hero's world people never
Did the wrong thing
While Marshal Dillon was in Dodge.

So did you think Miss Kitty's place was anything other
than a culturally acceptable
reference to professional social ******* workers
under a strong, smart female CEO
with top-level links to the local cops?

All these are rhetorical questions, this being
Rhetorical if you are hearing me say this.
That means, don't nod or raise your hand or shout Amen, kin!

I see your answer my answer and
I know my answer, so you know my answer.

Step-back, 1961, USA Snapshot
Unitas, Benny Kid Perett, Mantlenmarris, the Guns of Navarone.

Why I recall those things, I know not.
Why I did not say I do not know, I do not know.

Though, pausing to think,
knowing contains the doing of it within it, you know.
What's to do?

Outlaws were more my heroes than cowboys, and marshals, and such
Especially the ones that had been forced out by law.

I grew up in a 1950's junkyard with no fence, one mile north of route 66
On the Al-Can highway to Las Vegas, 103 miles away.
My Grandpa was a blacksmith's son,
who rode a horse he broke and his pa had shod
From Texas to Arizona in 1917, at the age of 18.

by the time I knew him,
He was fifty, settled down, nearly, from the war.
Momma had to work, so, daytime, Granddaddy raised me.

Horses weren't, wrecked cars were,
the toys of my childhood.

Grandpa built a junkyard from cars left steam blown
on the old stage road, from before
the railroad.
The Abo Highway hain't been Route 66 for some time yet…
Hoping…


Hoping sometime to polish this bit of this book, I left myself re-minders
Hoping memory of mental realms might rewind or unwind sequentially
When trigger
Neighed.
That worked, Roy Autry and Gene Rogers were names Sue Snow's
Mormon Bishop granddaddy called me,
back when I first recall My Grandpa Caleb,
a baptist by confession,
who was,
as I recall a *****-drinkin' jolly drunk.
While Grandma made beds in some motel,
granddaddy built boats and horse trailers
and hot rod 34 Chevies,
and he fixed this one red Indian, I could read the word on the gas tank, I knew the word Indian
and this motor cycle was proud to wear the name. I was 4.

A stout-strong man, no fat near any working muscle system,
he could and would
repair any broken thing,
for anybody. People called him Pop.
Pop and Mr. Levi-next-door at the Loma Vista Motel, shared a listing in the Green Book,
so broke down ******* knew where help could be found
after dark in that town.
There was a warnin'ag'in
let'n sunset there
on darker than grandma's skin.

My Gran'daddy's shop had two gas pumps
that were reset to begin pumping with the turn of a crank.
As soon as I could turn that crank,
I could pump gas.
I could fill up that red Indian
Motorcycle.
But "m'spokes was too short
to kick the starter."
I told my eleven year old uncle
and he told
how he would always remember learning
that saddles have no linkage
to horse brakes.
"Not knowing what you cain't do
kin *** ye kilt."

He grew up in the junk yard, too.
My first outlaw hero.

Likely, I am alive today, because
On the day I discovered I could pump gas as good as any man,
I also discovered that real motorcycles were not built for little boys.
This is an earlier voice which I wrote a series of thought experiments. The book is finished, most parts, some reader feedback as to interest in more, will be high value gifts from you to me, and counted so.
Carsyn Smith May 2015
The line for the local convenience store
Stretched out to Market Avenue’s dirt curb,
Past makeshift street clowns juggling the poor
And the ***-stench of “Population Curb.”

We make like big balloons who self-implode:
Fires to fight fires, guns to fight guns,
Fighting for survival makes mores erode
When a dark illusion has fooled billions.

Little John waits in line with his mommy,
No more than a decade, he learns to shoot.
Life was quiet like a dark raging sea,
Now we shake from a screen and men in suits

Fear not, trembling people of the world,
There is a way to end the gun violence,
To stop making canyons of the knurled:
Guns for all! Shun to think of gun absence!

Automatics in the professor’s desk,
Two pistols strapped to Sally’s little thighs,
End common fear with something more grotesque:
Endless rivers of red and eyes for eyes.
An assignment for my English class satire unit :3
friends or frenemies (feminist safety instruction card)

a coastal flight, boredom has me riffle through the various
offerings in the seat pocket, and on the safety instruction card
come across this...
<•>

she’s blunt, direct, proffers me an either/or choice,
game on either way, pick door A or B, up to me,
she’s no lady, but a hipster shooter using semi-automatics,
three lines of verse, rat-a-tat-tat, your guts spilling,
hoho you’re dead or kicked in the *****, at the minimum

if only she knew what she was up against

I got words for which there ain't no antidote,
can whip her into a lovers frenzy with cooing metaphors,
slap her with stingers so that she’ll retreat hasty to another site

friends or frenemies, how juvenile, how sweet, how absolutely
childish girl, no interest, play in my arena, I have studied with
the masters and lionesses and offer you no terms but this:

be my lover

extend your reach, speak slow and soft, open and willing,
my sonnets demand close attention, slowing and holding,
building links into chains that make boundaries into a single
tie that binds, not for now and not for later but for the only measure that poets alone command: forever

concede and give up that conceit that tough is a defense,
lose everything for rewards you have yet to witness, conceive,
in my circle is in my circle where the intuitive rules and gasps of shocking come so frequent, they are normal breathing

be my lover

knowing that we will never meet never see the inside of
the furnace that can be dreamed-created with tonguing verbs,
adjectives that dance intertwining pas de deux,
oh my femme fatale, my agent provocateur,
let us learn together how,  to teach each other
come,
will be the only action word ever required

come
come write me
come together
come close my eyes
come open them wider
come free me to be a one two

anger is false brevity - loving is the languid forever languishing flames of golden burning orange caramel, word chips of
liquidity that verses, penned passioned calculations,
see how takes many stalks needy to  birth bound into a
single sheaf, count the wips of smoky wispy slivers,
combine and separate, the calculus of recombinant,
offering a unique poem with a momentary invitation,
an equation of equality and there is no diverse different


<•>

the first class steward sh/wakes the dozing body
with an apology;
“landing soon, would you like some breakfast before we land?”

the sleepy soul replies,
come to me with water,
just water...for my dream
Austin Heath Sep 2015
They are hunters,
banging on the doors drawing the blinds,
putting the children on their knees
with automatics.
Firepower on firepower,
we are more than we need

and we behave so crazy,
so paranoid.
Blood stained carpets;
we sit in a cage and say we're
safe
and still that blood stains grows
to keep us content.

I heard it in the sugar skulls.

They said, "the dead men are still dead"
but somehow they lied as they hissed
exactly what I wanted to hear;

"the dead men are still dead."
Patrick Conroy Sep 2014
Tear gas and fear tactics.
Riot gear and semi-automatics.
Our military industrial complex has come home.
The government wire taps your cell phones.
Spies on you with drones.
While bully cops with billy clubs break your bones.
You know the motto:
serve master's interests,
protect master's property.
The crooked politician is today's slave owner.
Officer his overseer.
That sweet war on drug money armed them up.
Homeland Security bought the armored truck.
Nothing left to do but duck and cover up the evidence before it hits the 6 o' clock media dump.

I stand here today in full protest of toy soldiers in bulletproof vests placing American citizens under house arrest
with evening curfews and death threats.
Until those who are sworn to
uphold the law
begin to
abide by the law,
there will never be peace.
There will never be rest.
The Geneva Convention of 1925 prohibits the use of
asphyxiating and poisonous gases, liquids, and bacteriological
methods of warfare.
The United States has spoken out against countless countries
that have use these tactics on their own people
but has stood idly by as the police use it as a tool to disperse
the peaceful protests of American citizens.

This ******* needs to stop.
No one needs to die.
Not a civilian, not a cop.
America's infatuation with arming itself has come with
zero accountability and a severe lack of responsibility.
A scared nation with fingers on triggers have created
a bigger body count and has widened the gap between
police and community.

Hate and bigotry will never disappear from the human psyche.
It is the responsibility of every individual to
bring positivity into the world.
Ignore the intolerant.
Praise the pacifist.
May future generations reject the appalling actions of their forefathers
and usher in a new age of love and peace based on
tolerance and understanding.
Corina Helm Jul 2012
You know,
they had type writers,
We have computers.
They didn’t have cell phones,
We have ones with touch screens.
They had board games,
We have X-Box, Wii, and Play Station.
They sent letters,
We send emails.
They had to use books to research,
We have the internet.
They had records, cassettes,
We have i-Pods.
They had stick shifts,
We have automatics.
They had concerts,
We have YouTube.
We realize these things
Are still present in today’s society,
But we over look them and go to the
Newest thing.
We are Generation @.
Natasha Teller Oct 2014
Righteous Isis,
priceless queen, rife with green
vines winding between her lungs,
around her tongue, crowned with beams
of the ancient sun, power of Ra
beneath her thumb, life-giving wife,
wild child of reptiles, pride of the Nile--

righteous Isis,
she who gives birth to heaven and earth,
sovereign sorceress, steward of words,
my ancestress, blessed with flesh, this
bright protectress, next to death with
theft of her name, maimed by insane fanatics
grasping semi-automatics aimed at

righteous Isis,
spliced into terrorist crisis
situations, sacred name on a
radical federation, used for devastation,
appropriation of my divine mother,
brothers-in-arms killing the culture
of their own nations, of past generations, of

righteous Isis,
torn from her temple by
scorned fundamentalists,
prayers to her used to take
insurgent censuses
now when i bow to my goddess,
my empress, the powers suspect I'm a member of

rightist ISIS,
who crosses off competition
with crucifixion,
lays foundations for jurisdiction
with immolation, with detonation,
decapitation of journalists, their
murderous fists taking nations,

rightist ISIS,
whose power rests on the shoulders of dread,
men obsessed with erasing the names
of every goddess we hold close, of every man
who knows Mohammed did not preach death,
of every Buddhist, every Jew, every pagan, every Hindu,
choking the breath from those who don’t believe what they do--

rightist ISIS,
you think you own the sun but not this one,
not this pristine queen who tears the thunder from the skies,
and she will strike you down with pestilent blight
she'll smite you with a blistering light,
she'll drown you and ignite the tide,
and you will die with the second rise of

righteous Isis,
whose hand rocked the cradle of civilization,
whose shrines make the sacral heart of nations,
whose each breath gives divine illumination,
who shakes off the wasted shame
and patiently waits as we chant her names--
all ten thousand in glorification.
this is a rough draft.
Paul Rousseau Jul 2016
K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author,
While his son and I learned at school.
The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers-
Explosions, debris, and jet fuel.

We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips,
Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber.
Not one of us understood the weight or gravity-
Of one person killing another.

K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States,
Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious.
A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness-
That most readers found to be tasteless.

His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’
And every skin color was uniform and equal.
Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)-
And bullets were designed to be non-lethal.

In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns,
Automatics, ammunition and bombs.
The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot-
With sweat budding on his palms.

K.p and I fought over a girl at school,
I broke his nose and we each served detention.
At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught-
Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.
Michael Kreitman Nov 2015
I got sober over a year ago.
What god blessed me with is morals, honesty and a conscious.
When I was out, I hurt people and I enjoyed it.
It was something, I just had to do so you knew how big my rep was.
I was a caged animal and I wasn't even in cell anymore in my head at least.
Any challenge I met with violence.
I prayed most nights not to wake up.
I happened to have  a reminder this evening.
Tonight I picked up some food and sat at the bar.
Instead of salivating over sharp knives, semi automatics, a broken thumb and what I would do to certain fox news anchors.

First, I saw my old friend jack.
Before we reminisced I told him that, I'm allowed back in my mothers house.
And am home for the holidays especially thanksgiving.
I can hold a job instead of amassing monstrous amounts of credit card debt and fraudulent charges.
And my family tells me they love me.
Well he told me remember the good times, like trying to get hook up with someones girlfriend at a party.
while he was passed out.
 Saying anything that was needed to close the deal.
It just happened that night.
I was bamboozled
Also  I had the privilege of running into some *****-***** who had the gull to tell me.
You have the haircut of a ****.
Her words exactly.
So instead of keying some kind four letter feminine word into her car.
I fell down into the street divider and wouldn't get up till some acquaintances went out there and asked me if  I was alright.
"That of course, was all I most likely needed growing up" said so many counselors who loved to point out the fact that, well Michael you grew up in a broken home with a father who took his life right around the corner from you when you were just ten years old. The prime growing years of any young lad.

Then I spoke to an old college friend after that a noble of sorts C. Royal.
We spoke of past-times of unprotected *** with a so called girlfriends.
All of these women of course who I had cheated on and possibly fathered many children.
Now sober I'm following leads to see if they exist and planning to set up college funds.
If the maternal parent doesn't want me int there life.
Then later in life being the genius that I was cashing in so may bonds to celebrate my future sober life I began spending over 1500 at the tables.
OF course when I was banded from narcotics and ****** at the hotel room.
Whats the point of saving over 1200 in winnings.
Like any good addict I let it ride on black.

I just kept on running into old friends.
It was a hell of a night.
I then saw a french man of sorts and spoke to him last Mr. Marnier.
I told him for now at least  I don't regurgitate Thanksgiving dinners in front of friends families.
And my friends speak to me now.
After that I picked up the food and said goodbye.
I feel like life is based on truth. its like they say those who win the war write the history.
Joe Hill Dec 2012
Sometimes I feel the ceiling falling,
but that's just peripherals hauling shadows and crows calling from fallows.
Reality isn't changing, only my perception falling down,
aging and growing wicked angry and spiteful just 'cause I let it,
spitting lines of depression and hostile succession,
holding onto negative lessons,
refuting positive progression at the expense of intense spiritual expansion,
shunning the silver lining,
running too scared for shining sun to brighten the mood,
lighten the load, smooth the road,
crack the code of the looming clouds of the crowded skyline out the small window of the attic,
where I go to feed the addict and think about how my time would be better spent
playing roulette with russians and using automatics,
crack crack,
future's silent.

That's not really me, couldn't be, quietly pondering failures of loathing and perpetual black
clothing hiding scars of bygones instead of healing, sealing the skin like new, forging a
better view, starting to get a clue.

It's time for a change.
Butch Decatoria Nov 2016
The morning ***
Before head
back to work
This Jay Oh Bee
B is for Business / Bull Dooky

"It's just Bid ness"

No Justice
The menial  
Minimum wage / Slave to NEED
Gotta have purchase
Gotta buy to eat
Nothing comes for free

Except / accept

That moment
The whole world fears...
DEATH.
We sware to
Vanity
A Slave  - yes Sam, I am
I tell you this,
what I saw, we done-did seen...

White Grey hound buses
Parking in our Plaza
Spilling out the Orient,
          Snapping pictures with Samsungs
While I did smoke
An Ultralight One-Hundred
          I got the sense,
That they were surveying the area
Pointing forefingers painting
Tree
Miming
Expansion
GPS  e s p
Architects of
Pleased with themselves
The language of enigma
Listen
To their chatter
            chinking
Foreigners they used to be

Historical predictions now

What landscapes will look like
When remodeled
(...misguided projectiles....)

A bigger Little Korea Town

Over run...

It's the feeling
That must be panic
It's the feeling
Of being surrounded
By enemy foe
By animal control
Their tranqs. Nets & leashes,
Stunners at the ready...

Pzzt and sshhzzz....
Static mind games
Phones smarter than us,
Of course

We all FaceTime with touch screens
I'm no different,
Press Menu, the date and time
                       It's only 5 minutes 'til...
Light another ***
Before I get started ...

Here, my J.o.b. Is being...
The only employee "who a-speak a-only
English"
"Only a-one language"
Hehehe *** emoji!

Less than zilch.
Became
Like a spy spying secretly
Inside his own
Country / nation / tribe
Of the people, all
men are creating
Our own inequalities...

Done-did see, oh say so

We'll get - done got toked
Peace pipes, petrol
and the joke goes
"There's this bus, and them opportunists...
Blueprints, dispensaries,
The Imminent war..."

(Even the church has history
With puffs
            Of black and white
Rising
             Smoke / gag reflexes /
The Coughing it up)

Chang Cha-Ching!
Money.

Smoke brakes over
Gets back
To the factory
Line
Chain Gang am/way

Cracking whips on backs of us
Of those who still worship
The lamb...  Yes I am
To Uncle Sam :
In the way, another obstacle


In the way of progress
Prehistoric pedestrian painted in the landscape
Sooner pushing
Out of the way

For supermarket boulevard malls
Catering from cowering from defeat
Mean streaks
Bomb shells
Mad money and a piece
       "Glocks, 45colts, semi automatics
        *******' Guns
For the **** storm hustle...!"


Every conversation started
Shaft all up in your grill
Every question an appeal
Digging
For information is power
Axing who you be?

I works at the grocers
In the ****** area part of town
Across the ways from the dispensary
(**** Chung winks at chuck wagons)

Says I gets discounts
With my marijuana card,
Prescription coupon
******


A regular
Opportunist.

Yelp! Hollah!

we Gots what you really need
       It's only business
Don't take it personal
Minions of E.T

But Still... there is no justice....

We Prey on the Lambs
And tell ourselves to
Doubt slowly
             "Just you wait / they'll see...
Dawn will break"
Ever
Clear of smoke, no doubt

The open minds, eyes,
Done did and able to see...
The invasion
Gots
Intellectual property

Karma will be a *****
On dinosaur bones
In the crude that burns the sky
And the smoke
Breaking
Our bad /

bubble...

FIN.life.
Choke.
Ryan O'Leary Jan 2020
Multi tasker's hand
hold stick shifts and
use both their legs.

Which is why I am
suspicious of people
who drive automatics.

This is why some
spermatozoa's only
make it to be girls.
Overwhelmed Jul 2012
thirteen dead in Colorado
yeah that’s right
thirteen
or was it twelve?
maybe it was fourteen
have they even caught him yet?
I heard they just “identified” him
oh they did?
good
that’s good
lord what has the world come to?
mad men with shotguns
and semi-automatics
just walking into movie theatres
killing anyone and everyone
what’s the point?
what did those people
even do?

oh well,
you take care ok?
we’ll go see the film
later this weekend
Graff1980 Jan 2017
What level of warrior
do you claim to be
when you maim the weak
and wreak havoc when you speak
of sick sentiments?

You build your armaments
stockpile rifles, semi-automatics,
and handguns
shoot animals for fun.

I do not begrudge that.
I merely judge the fact
that you lack any tact
as you cry out the government
is coming to take them back.

You were afraid of the democrat,
the one you despised because he was black
perhaps you felt that he would
pay us all back for the two hundred
and forty plus years of
treating brown people like trash.

However, despite your rants
despite the Sandy Hook massacre,
the nightclub, the church
Columbine, and all other hurt
in the multitudinous mass shootings
I have not seen any government scheme
to take your guns or gun rights away.
Once the tears shed a thought is
bred
From the nerves that beg
For attention I'm still
wishin'
Got **** why must I feel the
Emotions
Of a forced commotion let me
Be now
Used to love but now I'm a criminal
Lyrically
I shatter muthakuckas til
They weapin' eternally
How long will they mourn me for the ******
Laid on me drenched in my own
blood
Mama crying but I ain't lying see the time multiplying
Each day a closer step to judgement day
At the end of the day it don't
matter
What they say as the evilness
preys
On weakest I'm still feelin' bliss as the sun kiss
My body even though I'm dead and gone
And all y'all remain strong til the
end
Of the song and light up a
****
Yeah it seems
drastic
But its nothing but deja vu for teardrops and closed
Caskets


Now that sun done rose up I bake
Up
See the Hennessy in my cup a demons corrupt
Let the spirits meditate and
marinate
So I can create a perfect flow

automatics
My tactics made from a blind man with a pistol
In hand can't see wheres he's aimmin'?
But he sees the sighing spirit world crying
Out let the demons out begins a
spark
Enter the realms of the
dark so I can
Hide that pain that consumes sweep up
Like a broom looking at the tombs
Of my past peers
I let the tears kiss the grave can't be saved
I'm stuck.on this Earth as a slave until I pave
A way to my destiny my heart I'm off the charts
Made a heartless ******* until the pain sours
Tears drops and closed caskets
James Taylor Nov 2017
Time was spent and time was taken
Wars were fought and lives were shaken
Sons were lost in foreign battles
Dignitaries are greatly rattled
The cost of Freedom has no maxis
Nothings free, but dealth and taxes
Debt's unchecked without the money
Bills are real, and that's not funny
A need for cash is why we're working
That girl next door, gets paid for twerking
Those, like me, we're paid to slaughter
Foreign fighter's sons and daughters
As they charged with vest, full laden
Of explosives, lives were taken
But, that's ok, there will be others
Pregnacies of angry mothers
Churning out the next rotation
Feed on hate, like cheese and bacon
They grow to hate the American statis
Not taught with books, but automatics
AK fourty-seven practice
Everyday they horn their tactics
In the hills they learn a trade
**** Americans, get paid
Not in cash, but, lushous virgins
For a suicide incursion
Martyrdom for cause and faith
A good idea or bad mistake
Only you control your live
So, die like rats, or learn to fight
Constitutionally, I'm speaking
These laws of ours, could stand some tweaking
Need more freedom; less restriction
And keep this government out my kitchen
I've got rights, so, ****-it, respect it
I've earned the right to roll this Lexus
Inkpen Slinger, is what you called me
Now, acting like you never say me
Mind so potent, it's illegal
All my poems, they come with sequels
Like this here, I thought and dropped
Another thousand in my pocket
I'm as lucky as a four leaf clover
But, as for now, it's done and over
Diane Jan 2021
Behind the joy of fundraising mittens
Lies the truth, fear and delayed expectations
Pouring milk over cereal is hardly caretaking
Armored with semi
automatics and fruit roll-ups
Healing and unity are synonyms for
Denial
social appearance
and shifting blame
If not literally helpless, they pretend;
Your homelessness should not embarrass you
When you tell your cold son that this tent
is a blessing
They’re doing what they can
in spite of the circumstances
They voted for
warm milk
took money
And sabotaged
the guy
Who sees, knows and fights
I’m dreading
the well worn rationalization
and their refusal to be defeated
While white authoritarians
Drain blood from our hearts
Maybe Mom wasn’t losing her mind.
Lawrence Hall Jul 27
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                Let’s go for Coffee -- Grab Your Flak Jacket

Some give their sons semi-automatics and hate
Instead of family and purpose and love
Instead of guided study and structured faith
Instead of fishing poles and summer afternoons
I hold your brain
Even though they call you lame
Despite the pain
You use me to stay ahead of the game
But things have changed
I’m getter lighter everyday
Instead of books and paper
I feel metal inside
What could he be doing with maps?
And why all the caps?
You have changed so now
Instead of study hall at 11
We’re at the gun range til 7
I miss our locker so
Now all I know
Is it takes 9 guns till I blow
It doesn’t feel right
Where are you going with this?
I don’t see a enemy insight
But I couldn’t tell if I read what you write
Who is this “they” that will pay?
Answer me please
Or let’s just freeze
We left for school late
Headed for you violent date
Packed with semis and automatics
I hope this doesn’t end up tragic
You walk in the cafe with no intention to eat
I feel you put me down and slowly unzip
I pray that this is only it
Then I hear the shots and the screams too
Why couldn’t you have just said
I needed help Drew
Arke Sep 2017
we'd fire automatics
against painted grey skies
and hold on to what we cherish
in 20 item inventories
we'd race the grand prix on ducati's
against time
and the cruel controller
with broken buttons

you'd always lose but
continued to play
until the very end
of the race over
the checkerboard
-finish-line-

looks like you got first place this time
and i'm still trailing in the dirt
and the dust
you've left

behind
#goodbye #father #missyou #gamingbuddy
ZACK GRAM Feb 24
Im building a plant
200 billion worth
Im building
A gun
An gun restore
Manufactory
Not like the ones now
Im talking no serial
Im buying all
New temu
Automatics
Nationwide
This includes
Camps
Barracks
Wharehouse
Underground bunkers
Underground facilities
If we spent 500 billion
Thats ok too
Im going to arm my civilians
****** gave everyone a gun
Me too 2024
Mash em down
As fast they respawn
They two isles on my nugget
The new amazon
Ammunition
Hurry buy 100
Not rounds
100 pounds
50 cal sounds 2 miles rooftop
On the pile
Look out
Look over
Top my city
Whats about to go down
More guns
More ammo
Americafied
Greatest Nation Alive
Clips Checks Balances
Lawrence Hall Oct 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                              General­ Flynn and his Reichskirche

               The Putsch Began at the Spooky Nook Sports Complex

Saint General Flynn demands ein Reichskirche
President Trump fantasizes about prison ****
Marjorie Taylor Green toys with her Jewish space laser
And the Party obsesses on ***** books

Thirty-round magazines and stock-tank baptisms
Rams’ horns, made-in-China Wal-Mart camouflage
Squeezed around fat proud boy oaf-keepers
An unorganized militia of lemmings

Red-capped lemmings channeling QAnon
While waving Bibles and semi-automatics
20,000 ******* marching out of step
Well-armed against sin at the voting booth

Trump!
Trump!
Trump!
Trump!
Big Virge Jun 2021
It’s Pretty CLEAR That...
...... NONSENSE....
Causes Us... PROBLEMS... !!!

But Some Are Caused...
By MORE Than Flaws... !!!

Some Are Displayed...
Because of Our Age...

Ya See When Young Lacking Experience...
Can Make Your Problems... SERIOUS... !!!!

When Old Well Ya Know...
The Old Memory... Goes..........

And That Can Cause Problems...
That Can’t Be Fixed By Solvents...

Or Drugs Like... Coc’...
So....... SLOW That Roll....  !!!

Before It Takes A TOLL...
On Your Body And Soul... !!!
Like... BROKEN Bones...
As Old Age GROWS... !!!
That CREATE HOLES  ...
BEYOND Your Control.... !!!!!!

... Some YOU CAN....  !!!

But You Have To Plan...
To Leave PROBLEMS ******... !!!
BEHIND Doors You SLAM... !!!

But Problems RISE...
If You’re NOT WISE... !!!
And Choose To Live Life...
Using LIES As Your Guide... !?!

You See The Problem With LYING...
Is That It Leaves The TRUTH DYING... !!!

Which Can Be PROBLEMATIC...
If You Face AUTOMATICS...
And PROBLEMS That Are TRAGIC... !!!

Because You Couldn’t MANAGE...
TRUTH That Causes... DAMAGE... !!!

To LIES That CLEARLY RAVAGE... !!!
MUCH More Than CANNIBAL Savage... !!!!!

You See CARELESS Acts....
Can Breed PROBLEMS... !!!

............. FACT......... !!!!!

Indeed... Hollywood Clans...
Seem To USE Their Hands...
In... " Various Acts “...

That Cause PROBLEMS...
That Revolve Around ***... !!!!!
And ABUSIVE Ends That Some RESENT... !!!

But Enough About THEM...
And Their World of Pretence... !!!!!

As I Said BEFORE...
PROBLEMS Come FORTH... !!!
When Age Resorts...
To Affecting Our Minds... !!!

Believe PROBLEMS RISE...
To The Point Where You Find...
That You CAN'T Memorise... !!!!!!

Poetic Designs From INTRICATE Rhymes...
Like These That I Write And Sometimes Recite...

It’s A Problem Designed...
By Old... Father Time... !!!

Now A Lack of Vision....
Is A Problem Conditioned... !!!

To KEEP You Blind...
And UNABLE To Find...
A Way For Your Eyes...
To Retain CLEAR SIGHT...
When It Comes To The Plight...
of.... Relationship STRIFE...

ESPECIALLY When...
It Involves A CHILD... !!!

But Those Are Lines...
For Another Time...

... As Are PROBLEMS...
Caused By The Feds' And Governments...
And Nowadays YES CERTAIN Presidents... !!!

And That Right There...
Is Simply Where...
This Piece Should END.

That I’ve Called....

... “ PROBLEMS “...
We all face em' from time to time, hence, these rhymes ....
Big Virge Apr 2021
'Automatic' ... A Poem written by Big Virge 9/4/2017

MAN I Do It Just Like...
It's... " AUTOMATIC "...

WITHOUT That Static...
That Can Make Things TRAGIC... !!!

In Fact It's Quite FANTASTIC... !!!
The Way I Lyrically DAMAGE... !!!

Jerks Whose Verse...
Clearly Lacks THAT MAGIC... !!!!!

Well Like David Blaine...
I ELEVATE As I Lyrically Levitate...

Over Acetate Dub Plates... !!!

My Wordplay Shows PURE Grace...
of Thought Waves Put to Page....

That Then Become Sound Waves....
Worthy of... ANY Stage... !!!
Or System Made for BASS...
And Spoken Word Displays...
That HIT Ya Like... HIGH Grade... !!!

AUTOMATIC Like THAT... !!!
When You Hear The Chat...
That My Mental... MAPS...

That's Built To Collapse...
The INSIDIOUS Plans...
of These Government Chaps... !!!

Who Take The STANCE...
of... BIGOTED Man... !!!

And Females TOO...
Don't Get It Confused... !!!

Equilibrium... AUTOMATIC...
In How My Books Stay BALANCED...
If I Start To Think Like A Corporate SAVAGE... !!!

Automatically I Manage....
And DISTRESS Thoughts...
That DAMAGE The BALANCE...

That … STOPS Madness...
And Ever Feeling HAPLESS...

In This World Where AUTOMATICS...
Are Drawn Like Horse Do Carriage... !!!!!

Leading To Peoples... SADNESS... !!!

The Task These Days Is THANKLESS...
Spreading Wisdom To The Masses.... !!!!!!

But Trust In THIS I WON'T EVER QUIT...
Because My Thoughts Are INFINITE...........................  .............

When It Comes To Scripts...
That Speak About Things...
Like... How We Live...

In Manners That FLIP...
Like Olympic Medalists...
Doing... Gymnastics... !!!!!!

I've Got MORE Tricks...
And EXQUISITE Sips...

of Thinking That TWISTS...
MORE Than Dancers Hips... !!!
  
When I Link What I Think...
To... Paper And Ink..............

That's Just How It IS...
I'm A Thinker Whose Fingers...
Trigger HEAVYWEIGHT Scripture... !!!

That TRULY Flows...
Right Through MY BONES... !!!

So BELIEVE ME When I Say....
That It's MUCH MORE Than...

A.... " Habit "....

What It Is... IS...

..... " Automatic ".....
It Really IS NOW !
Lawrence Hall Dec 2020
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


                            Reading is a Suspicious Activity:
                                Blue-Penciled in Solovetsky

   “…Soviet writers failed to write about their personal thoughts.”

                                               -Yevtushenko

Reading is a suspicious activity
Unless it’s a technical book of instructions
Or a hunting magazine with centerfolds
Of seductive semi-automatics

Writing is a forbidden activity
Unless it’s a grocery shopping list
Or the code to a new computer game
Of zombie valkyries with ******* tats

They’ve only gotten as far as statues thrown down
They’ll destroy the libraries next – and maybe you
A poem is itself.

— The End —