"autos" poems
Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice
Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies
Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets
Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians
Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense
Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations
Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings
Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
The apartment hasn’t been cleaned for so long and has housed a depressive in it for the same length of time so that there is a glaze of slime-dirt on the floor, made of dried coffee, hot chocolate, maybe some **** or some spillage from a tube of steroid cream to treat an inflammation that never really goes. The rate of ooze changes?. Clean textiles are piled up on the floor, never having been folded, and mix here and there with ***** practical fatpants that make me look like a geologist and white-white cotton blankets that can be washed on HOT with lots of bleach that I purloined from some mentalhealthfacility. The inbox is full of—is bristling with—remonstrances from Programs for the Nondoer—you haven’t filed, haven’t turnstiled, haven’t had your hologram chip assessed by central CENTRAL intelligence, what is wrong with you. Upon stepping outside there is a beat during which I think maybe somewonder might swirl and buoy but no, just wethumid and ***** sidewalks cruddy and Haitians and quasi-Haitians muttering “taxitaxitaxi” in front of their Gypsy conveyances with their dubious certifications. I should go for a ride in one, a dubious passenger for a dubious palanquin. I tried the library but it was too hot and decrepit and too filled with Books For African-Americans, which always ****** me off; are only African-Americans going to read Wright or Douglass or Brooks? Everyone is overrated, anyway, movies and theater and the moribund beat of commerce, and as the dangerous autos pass, sometimes not running you over, you can see morechange in the pockets of the shareholders of BeePee and Iacocca Coach-Wirx. Any friendliness exhibited seems to contain an underovertone of You’re Not Included Whiteboy White ****** Ghost ***** all archaic names I’ve been almost astounded to be called usually while balancing on tiptoe on some lurching, roaring dieselbus, grinding past off-off-off brand groceries that do a dubious business. While making my police report I wink at a sevenyearold boy and I get a lustrous wink back butalas this is not enough to beat back those slurrycolored brainfazes.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
remembering
memorial day just days away
now a special celebration
drenched from over-soul pondering
greeting emerson this eve
his 209th year
poor richards
a place for welcoming
many memories disjoined
all gleaned from our
decades of living
a seeming descent
as we spoke and we
listened
antique autos remembered
youthful power and speed
swimwear two-piece and worn
shock and awe
by our nun
a dog shady by name
departure left questions
of lingering life
youthful dark deeds
some expressed some
in silence remained
memories with colors
some of an evil hue
deceased birds and a snake
regret and sorrow
thickening memories
some weighing still
then a reversal
recent memory brought forth
an injured slight bird
poor richards
again our place of recall
a hummingbird wounded
a new life endangered
dim prospects trapped
our darkened concern
clumsy intention then
unexpectedly blessed
a young woman appeared
joining intention with
her joyful acceptance
a bird found home
revival and rest
this memory of rescue
brought spirits ascending
with the bird our recovery
celebration resumed
glasses now lifted
new beginning
emerson 209 soon
("We sink to rise." RWE)
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
El sol dentro del día
El frío dentro del sol.
Calles sin nadie
autos parados
Todavía no hay nieve
hay viento viento
Arde todavía
en el aire helado
un arbolito rojo
Hablo con él al hablar contigo
Estoy en un cuarto abandonado del lenguaje
Tú estás en otro cuarto idéntico
O los dos estamos
en una calle que tu mirada ha despoblado
El mundo
imperceptiblemente se deshace
Memoria
desmoronada bajo nuestros pasos
Estoy parado a la mitad de esta línea
no escrita
Las puertas se abren y cierran solas
El aire
entra y sale por nuestra casa
El aire
habla a solas al hablar contigo
El aire
sin nombre por el pasillo interminable
No se sabe quién está del otro lado
El aire
vuelve aire todo lo que toca
El aire
con dedos de aire disipa lo que digo
Soy aire que no miras
No puedo abrir tus ojos
No puedo cerrar la puerta
El aire se ha vuelto sólido
Esta hora tiene la forma de una pausa
La pausa tiene tu forma
Tú tienes la forma de una fuente
no de agua sino de tiempo
En lo alto del chorro de la fuente
saltan mis pedazos
el fui el soy el no soy todavía
Mi vida no pesa
El pasado se adelgaza
El futuro es un poco de agua en tus ojos
Ahora tienes la forma de un puente
Bajo tus arcos navega nuestro cuarto
Desde tu pretil nos vemos pasar
Ondeas en el viento más luz que cuerpo
En la otra orilla el sol crece
al revés
Sus raíces se entierran en el cielo
Podríamos ocultarnos en su follaje
Con sus ramas prendemos una hoguera
El día es habitable
El frío ha inmovilizado al mundo
El espacio es de vidrio
El vidrio es de aire
Los ruidos más leves erigen
súbitas esculturas
el eco las multiplica y las dispersa
Tal vez va a nevar
Tiembla el árbol encendido
Ya está rodeado de noche
Al hablar con él hablo contigo
2.3k
*" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and
Illuminations from one End of this Continent
to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
John Adams – July 3, 1776.*
Webster Groves - 2016
The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling clown.
Philadelphia, July 3, 1776
Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
where resolute patriots
would turn the pages of history
and tell an unsuspecting world
that a new nation had given birth to itself.*
Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.
*Each crass insult from the British crown
had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
and revolution was the only course left.*
Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A pot-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.
*One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
knowing to the marrow that defeat
would spell certain ******* and death.*
We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.
*Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
Then surrender - all British claims
to American soil banished to the tomes of history.*
The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.
“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”
Robert Charles Howard
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
Eucalyptus filled air
Sheets of warm and cold air
Early tasmac drinkers
Weary eyed dads
Bye bye -ing mommies
Dung splattering cows
whipped pedigree dogs
Scared insects
Proud birds
Flowers with an attitude
The pig
A hero
Swarmed stinking
Dirtiest of them all
And a early morning feast
Charming brown eyed street dogs
Question marked trees
Washed pavements
Drooling men
Betel chewing glaring women
Girls in floral blouses sweeping
Sh -sh -sh -sh -sh
Autos rrrrrr
Shock absorbing nike shoes krr krr krrr krr
A cigarette ****
A sad memory
Pushed aside
By the brush of a hand
pushed to a remote corner
Hidden
another memory
a recent one
with a scaredy cat
Which i want to share and party with
Was vivid
Ornamented ladies
lighting lamps to a dead god
Guarded by vain priests
Obesience
and giving life
for people
Lost in hope and fear
A parallel existence
Corporates blaring into phones
Fit men playing tennis
Small sturdy grass
Petite flowers
Swaying and dancing
Everlasting
Everlasting ?
Is it a will or maybe or a should be ?
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
Mi primer amor tenía doce años y uñas negras.
Mi primer amor tiene ojos grandes y una sonrisa de cachete a cachete,
Aunque nunca te miraba a los ojos,
Y nunca sonreía en fotos.
Mi primer amor me rompio el corazón.
Lo fue sacando de pedazo en pedazo,
Y yo la deje…
En autos, en parques, en cines,
Me entregue.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
men would always tell me about the
arcs of screaming air splitting through gaia’s hair,
the heads of wheat falling, light shredding, and the sun bowing before
Leah and her scythe
this woman spent all her twenty one years in the fires of idaho
working for her father
preparing food for her brothers before their schooling.
she was made to stay at home,
and there she worked and washed and read and cut and crystallized
business men in windup cars would see her off the highway
her muscles swaying with the wind, treetop hair flogging the setting sun
singing folk songs to herself in a falsetto that sounded like a rocking chair.
these men would stop to chat, but soon realize that this
Leah was burning too much for them.
her heart was different from city folk
and most country folk for that matter.
her ventricles were connected through a series of
crimson twigs and gnarled vines.
it pumped like any other heart,
but it would crack and wheeze anytime she left that farm.
those businessmen expected that she would be enthralledby anything out of town.
but it was the opposite; fancy gadgets bore her and
snazzy suits and autos seemed like pointless little ornaments.
she’d be more impressed by a man who could cut wheat like she could
a man who could shoot life out of the iron earth
and feed his kin with the pickings of his heart.
but she never quite found a man like that.
she stayed there, and let herself bleed into those idaho hills.
the roots of the grain wrapped around her veins
and her lungs breathed for the farm
just as its rainfall pumped her brown blood.
she never grew old that Leah, because she kept her crop so fresh.
every morning she watered and plowed and every while,
with scorching eyes and whipping locks
she’d swing her scythe, and smell the breaking spines of wheat,
and would quietly sing,
like a rocking chair.
Posted by David Clifford Turner at
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
I wanted to once more
return on Home; to stand
upon the front-porch, hand-crafted
by a Supreme knowledge of your skin.
To ignite the necessary ember to fuel
the fire behind your eyes; to linger
in the door frame as a way to embolden
that birthmark I always encouraged upon
your, half-swollen heart.
I wanted to Unconsciously return again to a singular
dependence on your five-o-clock laugh
or upon the fact that my ******* always saluted the
way your *** got zipped up in those Levi's, all the
way up, to your Blue Collar.
I haven't been able to
shake off your Novelty; travelling
the World and devouring boys
like you, in stale rooms and motionless autos,
where their skin made me Itch, and left nothing but
bed bug souvenirs to nestle in my brain. *(It's not their
fault that lavender and cotton, never
smelled as good on a girl like me)*
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
A year and a half has passed since I crashed my motorcycle.
The broken bones and road rash had since been cast away.
The gassed up tank and fast paced life were smashed together.
A singular bash that cached my memory.
Lights flashed and all of the sudden whiplash has new meaning.
This thrash of two autos blinked my eyelash three days later.
Paralytic forecast.
I lay flabbergast.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
To the window sill that lays out the street,
And gentle raindrops that expand the night
And dust of skin where at the corners creep
And four happy children that play outside:
More nighttime autos that bustle the floor
Under quiet stars below lantern heat:
And waning lamps that dim the houses door
And the sullen clouds that eventual sleep:
With calling mothers for their children young
And teenage men play their music and ride
With grandfathers old and lonely in sleep
And frightened boys that in their bedtime cry.
Then a poet that on his third floor sees
The entire world from his window keep.
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 11:13 PM UTC
I hear the drone
a mile away,
the endless stream of traffic,
truckers & autos
pushing on in
the stillness
of a winter morn,
no sun to guide them,
just endless rows
of highway lights.
I fight the loneliness
with my woolen blanket,
realizing
my feet are cold,
listening alone.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
I once had a friend whose great-grandfather was a partner of J.P. Morgan. My friend had grown up in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He was a good man, and you wouldn't have known he was heir to a vast fortune, except for his anamnestic autos. In fact, he eschewed the affected life. He was an organic farmer outside of Lawrence, Kansas. I mean he really was a farmer. He was up at 6 and drove a tractor til sunset. He and I would get together from time to time eating tapioca pudding at Denny's and, of course, chatting. The one idiosyncrasy that gave away his untold wealth was anamnestic autos. To the side of his modest farm house was a field within which were old antique cars spread out as if they were cattle, but they were not. There was an Alpha Romeo, a Horsch, a Lamborghini, a Maserati, and a Ferrari. My friend would get an impulse to buy a certain antique car, and because he had the money, he'd buy it. But then after enjoying it for a time, he literally put it out to pasture. The scene reminded me of a painting by Salvador Dali. He never talked about his fortune, but he often ordered a second tapioca pudding.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
A new year came born last night
Or an old one died
Worn and used, useless
Amidst champaign, påte and toasts.
This new day, new noon, new year
Black tie, fine clothes folded,
Noted a shirt stud lost
And must be replaced.
Before we part five stars
Rented the night
I would
Step outside for a cigarette -
No smoking inside, only cigars.
It's just the help who smoke
Paper wrapped scraps
Out back by the trash
And I wouldn't be welcome.
Lobby busy with guests
On their ways through
Doors held open to
Black labeled autos
Where the heeled reach hand
To men whose faces they avoid
Exchanging obligatory graft
Glad their craft returned.
January air stabs
Its frigid blade slicing
Nostrils, lungs in pain, cheek burns
Frost earns my mustache.
Finally past the bustle
Some steps to the side
Where my fix can be lit
"Hey, brother"
A voice, a wretch
Cold taken its toll, nasal exudate
Frozen in a lake on lip
He hopped from foot to foot
And I smelled him, vagabond
An assault to air already painful
Oh, to walk on, feign deafness!
But needy eyes held me
Refusing the cigarette offered
He just wanted to say
"Happy new year"
Know that he existed.
Brown eyes cried
That someone finally stopped
To listen.
Oct 10, 2009
Oct 10, 2009 at 7:34 PM UTC
It was an all black car
Where ever the action went it was driving into adventure being far
It could be a mountain trail
It might be across the globe with anything but fail
But the Knight-Rider car with the nickname “KITT”
However, the car being energized and totally computerized was it
I had the opportunity while vacationing in Downtown Los Angeles to visit Universal Studios Hollywood
This is the place where all the Oscars stood
But let me fill you in a little secret
There were several other Knight-Rider cars
I will call them “Stand in Autos”
When the original Knight-Rider car crashes beyond repair
You can always depend on many many spare
Yet the Knight-Rider car was always on the move
There were thrills in action to prove
But for the moment don’t move
For example, a racing car in competition that thinks it is more Tech
But wait, the Knight-Rider car having flips and tricks being the Knight-Rider car having effect
Eye on technology in having its own elect
I almost forgot, I met the man behind Kitt’s wheels, David Hasselhoff
We actually spoke in person one on one
David Hasselhoff has height standing among
Knight-Rider car has driven into the night
But there is a spotlight giving it light
Yet the Knight-Riding car says goodnight.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
He was an expert driver
in that sporty car slung so low.
He had a lead foot
when he was in a temper,
and she clung to the seat
in wild eyed fright.
He shook his fist
right in her face,
the ring grasped tight inside.
Once a symbol of love,
now tarnished and bitter.
Squealing around and around
the roundabout
he slung the ring
out the autos open top.
It sailed across the blue sky,
glittering brightly in a high arc,
landing extinguished in the grass.
A tiny *** of lost gold
at the end of their wrecked rainbow.
She saw everything so clearly now
it was as if she had acquired
preternatural vision.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
Es preciso ponernos brevemente de acuerdo
aquí el buitre es un aura tiñosa y circulante
las olas humedecen los pies de las estatuas
y hay mulatas en todos los puntos cardinales
los autos van dejando tuercas en el camino,
los jóvenes son jóvenes de un modo irrefutable
aquí el amor transita sabroso y subversivo
y hay mulatas en todos los puntos cardinales.
Nada de eso es exceso de ron o de delirio
quizá una borrachera de cielo y flamboyanes
lo cierto es que esta noche el carnaval arrolla
y hay mulatas en todos los puntos cardinales.
Es preciso ponernos brevemente de acuerdo
esta ciudad ignora y sabe lo que hace.
Cultiva el imposible y exporta los veranos
y hay mulatas en todos los puntos cardinales.
Aquí flota el orgullo como una garza invicta,
nadie se queda fuera y todo el mundo es alguien.
El sol identifica relajos y candores
y hay mulatas en todos los puntos cardinales.
Como si Marx quisiera bailar el mozambique
o fueran abolidas todas las soledades.
La noche es un sencillo complot contra la muerte
y hay mulatas en todos los puntos cardinales.
891
it’s beendonebefore
b e f o r e
that’
s also after that
’s still before in concentric cir
C
les of re-(de-)
pressive ****** releases in-
to bliss in
spite in spir
it autos tandems con-
tained by ads of women tit-ed
vastly amid ******* stilted Dei-
ties as of grandkingdomcomes
to reap unwarranted respect
***** Welsh adulation in selfservingcycles
of crimson-ish
Santas
living with in plu-
m fairiesinlalaland(that are all stiff
bar in thy top)
(do you really think you ought to
? or can? why
not to try must a
nd with-
outcauses)
sing-along sing-along follow follow on track on track;
‘til you crash to reboot perhaps
and may
be
bye by
any luck
(you-oughto you-oughto you-can you-can)
and happiness fol
lows bye by
all
means
for sure
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
*A haiku flash
this new toy at ready
dullness shatters...
Moment of violence
suddenness in tranquil field
deeper field prevails...
Unusual fog today
reminder of sameness in all
differences jump...
Sublime distant Peak
parking lot autos..light poles
constrictions disappoint...
Evening news
connects screaming dots
so few dots...*
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
I was born
Into a fake dream brother
Hard to shake them demons
Around me
Cuz laws go everywhere they follow me
Subliminally
I raised my conscious
Now I got Haters feeling nervous
Every time I preach revolting service
I'm holding back with the gat
Quick to act
Don't be mad at me
They hate me cuz my skin is black
And if at all? I have a ****** downfall
Ill still pick up the pieces
Standing tall fools on the gall
But all I gotta do is make a phone call
My homies answer with no panic
Hey get there guns bring the nation to panic schizophrenic
Cuz the world is so crazyyyy
Yeah I try to sway away from being wicked
But I can't cuz I'm focused on meal tickets
Gotta eat and keep my family Fed
Church hypocrites ain't breaking me no bread
False dreams of a reality
Sun Tzu gave me the recipe
And ingridients secrets of war
Hitting ya back
Listen to the sound of my Mack
As the world's getting colder.
And colder in feelin bolder
This is strictly for my soljaz bitchhhhh
Strictly for my strictly for my strictly strictly for my soljaz
Strictly for my soljaz making cheese
Yo I can't help but myself
So I keep autos on the self
Just incase of a confrontation
With the cops I mute there conversations
Yeah back to back against nation
Hidden in colors I got ghetto congregation
No hesitatin
We ready for the war to pop
And we ain't our ancestors *****
Well make ya heartbeat stop
I know they wish I stayed in hell
But rap stories will never
Fail thugs prevail sailin like Gail
Through lady liberty
Just justicccce yeah just as
Spin around critics like taz
So y'all can miss with the jazz
How long will my reign last
As the nation of mobsters
Ready to ****** blast duck fast
Cuz we tearing **** switch
Out the clips
Down goes another *****
Look em in the eyes
Before gave em peace
Shot em right between his eyes
Another fool dead
I'm feeling good
Politicians I'm running out the hood
Back into the white house
Stuck in a safe haven
But I'm misbehavin since I got wisdom from a maven
And give it all that ya ******* got
And keep bustin at the racist cops
Fool now drop
Strictly for my strictly for my soljaz
Strictly for my strictly for my soljaz
Strictly for my soljaz making gs
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Crows, bluejays and pigeons
talk this morning. Closest we come
to wilderness here. Autos screech
and sirens scream. Only 7 a.m.
My fat belly and possible cancer
worry me. With a few months
to live, I'd search the wilderness
for some wisdom I missed. Or
plain beauty of natural randomness.
Knowing that, why do I remain
in health? I must devote my
present to my future existence.
The bluejays complain long after
everyone else is silent.
Love and friendship need the body
and society. You belong, you want
to belong, three days in wilderness
and you gladly return to
lovers' arms and plumbing.
But one day you die. And this
is the ideal independence you sought.
This death is the pristine aloneness,
the untouched wilderness and
freedom from necessity! And
it is certain. You do not save
for it. You do not worry that
you may miss your opportunity.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
The EL train howls through the avenue
Autos move slow through slush
Trudging about I think of you
Thoughts flow, my mouth hush
And even through this cold air,
I can't stop my feet from going on
It's as if I am without a care,
When Chicago has me in her arms
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
as mean drops fall without those intentions
i flick a bic and steal oxygen from lungs with fake friends,
outside "humans" without dreams
toss hands in the air
for funds they have
but autos in garages are scared.
memories break the glass in my thoughts
for there are folks here that love things i'm not
i'd be with a lover, and not have a heart for her,
she'd cling to me as barnacles do
but i'd be the child scarping an itch, inflicting self conscious wounds.
run and hide all women,
for there are things that i need,
i'll please you in sheets and kitchens
but if you want my heart, i'll leave you hungry
that's just something
i said before i love you
that means if you don't
i'll just live till the casket alone
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 6:57 PM UTC
Forests burn in ashen skies
Atmosphere of putrid lies,
Fat Cats write their cheques of gold
Another thousand hectares sold.
Forest fall for short term gain
**** tomorrow's children's pain.
**** the leaden poisoned air
Here and now is all they care,
High grade autos, classy chicks
Snort white powder, cash for kicks.....
Use it all at headlong speed
**** tomorrow...Let it bleed!
Off the Serpent's head I say
Abruptly end the Fat Cheques day.
End the **** of forest green
End the poisoned air obscene.
We owe it to tomorrow's sky,
We fix the problem...or we die.
M.
6 APRIL 2014
And.........
You know the tragedy at hand?
It's that no one here will make a stand;
We'll shake our heads and turn away
And pray that sanity will play.
The Dogs will ride roughshod and bold
Until established stranglehold
To throttle those who dare to caw,
Intimidate with threat and claw.
I've seen it all, I'm sick to say,
The Bulldozers shall have their way.
The Powerful, who write the cheque,
Stack all the cards and rig the deck!
M.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC