"ayn" poems
I will keep pushing myself.
Keep going.
I will read Edmund Spenser,
Shakespeare, Wilde,
Shelley, Doyle, and CS Lewis
By the end of the summer.
You laugh.
Two weeks, one book a day, it isn't hard.
I only have four chapters of chemistry to finish,
Two chapters of AP Physics,
Four chapters of AP US history,
My personal reading list,
Four debate cases,
And a little light reading
(Judith Butler and Ayn Rand).
I WILL finish everything I have to do.
Refill the coffee ***
I'll use more eyedrops.
Two weeks.
I will finish my summer homework.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Marijuana smoke fills the air
I play with your hair
You're here, I'm here
Aural pleasure, your voice in my ear
Sirens play, crippled with fear
Ten kilos of ****** lay right here
Why would you be friends with a writer?
Ever so pretentious, ever so righteous
Only come to play in the night time
Coming down and nodding off as it gets lighter
Pacifists the lot of them, not one fighter
Oh but many shall be knighted
We're here on a Island, each one of us banished
Authors of the west were long ago abolished
We've had our share of bloodshed
Alas, it's all fun and games until one of us is published.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
This One Time,
I stripped naked
and ****** my couch.
This other time
I threw a copy of The Fountainhead
at an RV moving at 64 miles an hour
I have a tree
In the foothills
named Clementine Valencia Jeff
and the same day, me and John
made a religion with Adam based
on cloud formations
You see, I'm a weird guy
I got
I got problems
I see a therapist
Her name's Rhonda
She likes Batmaa aaaaan
She sees people worse than me
but recognizes I got problems
and she
she tries to help
cause
cause I got problems
and the
and the problem
with having problems
is
is function
You
You can't do anything
You live to defy expectation
And - and it's really hard
to get into college
You never really get accepted
and and
and even if
even if you do you
you
you never really accept that
It's hard out there for a freak
I get lost within my own
ridiculous quandaries
You feel like you're not
you're not built right
like something's wrong
and you just punch and
and kick and
and destroy
Whatever feels des-
destroy able because it gives
purpose
Bu
But I finally think I -I
found my mantra
My my
My compass thing
My map whatever
It has the same number of
letters of something very very dear
to me
and
and that holds meaning
I
I wrote it on the back of my door
my door
and- and I sprayed it on a
shirt
I actually got it from a videogame with
with a
with Ayn Randian themes
It's religious
and
and every night now
before I go to sleep
I
I- I look into Neil Patrick Harris's
eyes
feel the warmth of my wonderful blanket
admire some handiwork
read about serial arson
close my eyes and tell myself
She is our Salvation
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 2:05 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected]
when i start by name
perhaps in a flap of fault
exculpate my soul
for maximum rectitude
is the true fill of my heart
glory to the sons of Russia
Kudos to you all and your foremen;
Nikolai Gogol the master in the dead souls
Alexander Pushkin the effeminate poet
Vladimir Lenin who knew what was doable
Alexander sholenestysn the Siberian jail bird
who was on the poetic phone by five
Feodor Dostoyevsky the epileptic Karamazov
Maxim Gorky and Antony Chenkoy leave them alone
Ayn Rand the woman who shrug the atlas for we the living
Vladimir Nabokov the school master who asked for ***
from her student the adourous ******
Boris Pasternak the Muzhik like Leo Tolstoy
who wanted land beyond the horizon
for doctor Zhivago the **** peasant
or Vladimir Makayavosky who slapped the public
in the face of their capitalistic taste,
Glorified be you all you sons of Russia
your Muse is beautiful and erotically crazy
glory for your humour and your finer threads
with which you have woven for me my poems of dystopia
glory be to you all in the stark oblivion
of Leon Trotsky and his penman Leonid Brezhnev
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Dazzled by
the glamour of robber barons,
a **** fetishist
shills for feudal revival
ambidextrously flogging
bleach-white equestrian bones
eventually dying
a looter's death.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
Going to the US
And to my dream city of New York
On a research work
And to meet few like minds
This is my first trip abroad
And happy that
My first foreign trip is to the land where
Ayn Rand created
Roark, Galt, and Francisco
Been busy with related work for the last few days
And will be so while on the trip
Adios friends
For a couple of weeks
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
When everybody tells me that I can be anything I want,
I was born to do what I want,
I believe them.
So, I was born to be wild.
Or maybe I was born 2 b wild (numeral and letter)
or brn2bwld (no vowels nospaces)
I'm a poet and I'm proud to say
**** form and while im at it, **** the word
*** (no c) and **** the grammar of needing to put the apostrophe in im
Because I write as i want i am as I want and nothing can
Change that.
like gatsby the Great i have given birth to Myself and
I am me, no
One ELSE
not even gatsby or any Ayn Randian wetdream dreamed of on a midsummer night because
fk (no c no vowels) Shakespeare and fitzgerald and the shrugging atlas
becuz (uz instead of ause)
this is Me
and no One, not a duckface peacesign Mona Lisa or a bandanawearing bazookawielding Benjamin Franklin
can ever destroy
t h a t
because (no change) I am born to be wild (no change)
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
flashes of the past crash into my mass
blasted and scratched, hide chapped,
I clap and shout at the memory
I approve of myself –
Old images of self-worth re-birth
And my fading girth is better for the earth
Large ***** pass gasses collapsing the greenhouse, but
I approve of myself –
Internal health and immeasurable wealth
As if the Delphi oracle imparted me
with love for self
growing stealth
with approval of myself –
affirmation nation retaliating against
infatuation with concentration camp
regurgitation
my patience wears thin and yet still
I approve of myself –
Granting panic stricken epidemic victims
Injections of insulin and bicarbonate soda
So the right wing harm bringers
Will no longer harbinger orangutans
Oh! the will of man…
Planning to land a dodge ram on the spam factory
Rectally cramming grandfather clock hands
Scamming bands of Ayn Rand fans
I approve of myself –
Derailed writings without direction
Making up things like “latterly”
…..better to just end it----
I approve of myself
And much of this message
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
Ayn Rand said,
"You Can Ignore Reality
But You cannot ignore the consequences
Of Ignoring reality."
The total collapse of the dollar will come.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
O front facin camera
Ayn Randian terror
Yet another Selfie
Of but another Narc-y
Glory to Me-ism
Duck face and pic-ism
Photoshopped pics
Of inflated lips
Capturer of Chimeras
O Front Facing Camera!
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
Deeper into the rabbit hole I go
Listen to the babble,
It tells more than you know
A story, a fable, a majestic broadway show
I'm spiraling
I'm awake
Cracking the ground around me like an earth quake
You feel it in your toes
You can smell it in your nose
All of a sudden time gradually slows
Until the moment has become completely froze
You sit there and ponder
How did my thoughts wander
In this moment here
There's absolutely nothing to fear
I haven't quite figured out
Is there a method to my madness
Or a madness to my method?
The movement is fluid
All knowing like a druid
With Ayn Rand in my hand
I feel the power to withstand the unplanned
I let go of the demand
And sink into the sand
Onward I go
In hopes to find the end
Always saying just one more bend
Yet deeper I still go into the hole
Then I think
Maybe I'm not following a rabbit
Maybe it's a mole
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
The Chosen
Zionism is like Ayn Rand's philosophy about
the right of the powerful.
These days to avoid saying a Jew we say
they are Zionists.
Even if Israel practice a policy of power
There are still 7 million Jews there, a minority
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
You have a Wednesday stuck to your oversized, hand-me-down, turtle-neck sweater.
The one with a hole in the elbow of your right sleeve.
It was hand stitched by a real machine, but not in Ireland.
You have a Wednesday snagged. Perhaps a loose thread became entangled, midweek ?
And now you have Wednesday, everywhere you go....
I only mention, because I noticed...
And it totally goes with that Monday
In your eyes.
Is that your Existential Crisis; parked right outside ?
I hope you fed the meter.
I can see where you spent your spiritual currency.
From every angle, simplicity of design !
Just a chasm and no plot. Elegant lines -
That wind up vanishing from the ' Unspeakable Frame '
Beyond the Border of What You Dare Think...
I have one just like that !
But mine has a concrete hunch about the whole thing.
A suspicion engine
So nothingness can't seem to live without me. But -
I see you have that thing you just hope isn't the truth
And I used to have that -
But now I just have a Headache.
I'm crushing on your Ayn Rand funeral parties
And that outrageous, bobble-head Doubting Thomas on your dashed hope.
Let's sit at that table by the window
And stare at each other as long as the window has nothing in it.
That should give us aeons to get to know each other.
There's no Law that says " I'm sorry for being such a stupid Law "
So without pause, we should defy our Separateness.
I'll ask for a clean fork in the road
And we'll see what that get's me....
Ah-ha !
I finally got a laugh
That didn't come from inside my skull.
A laugh that had good taste in men, and no idea where it came from -
But remembers how the couch made the carpet work.
The Abyss goes with everything, but you left it in the closet...
You know -Why unpack ?
That laugh was naked.
It gave me those Goosebumps
That can beat up Other Goosebumps.
Would you like to have some chai ?
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
A smooth jazz blast from the musical past:
The confused ethnomusicology,
The pleasantly discordant riffs and
Jingles of "Hiroshima"—
The band not the bomb site—
Whose fusion sound
Evokes an insane sextet
Granting membership, inexplicably to
Schroeder-- the Peanuts loony tune—
Hitting only the black keys of his piano,
His miniature keyboard
Sour, melodious & pure.
I am reading Ayn Rand’s
"Introduction to the Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition"
Of The Fountainhead, 1993;
An important 20th Century novel, I am told,
A book first copyrighted—
That’s copyrighted spelled without a W—
First copyrighted in 1943,
A copyright renewed in 1971,
By Ayn herself;
An important book--
Whether you’ve bought into her
Man-worshiping atheism—
Or not.
I write these words on the back of a business envelope,
The only paper to be found in this house,
Not ironic, while pondering
A wireless laptop charging,
Plugged in far away on a kitchen countertop.
Lying on a couch in northern New Mexico,
It is an Ides of March 2014 mid-afternoon.
I am 64 years old.
Old enough to know better;
Growing more conservative each day,
With Ayn, I celebrate he who never gives up,
“By spitting in one’s own face,
And damning existence.”
The Fountainhead:
She called the book a “GUIDEPOST,”
A reminder of man’s noble vision,
Proclaiming man in noble glory.
A Sartre you were not, Ayn.
How interesting to think of
The two of you, co-temporaries,
Aspirating the same Earth atmosphere.
This fact itself, an astonishing example of
"Weltanschaung" polarity.
No wonder the world is so ****** up.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Once there was an end of the war in sight,
they built their John Steinbeck ship,
hoisted the Ayn Rand flag
and sailed to the promised land.
Upon the dulcet shore, there she was,
their old enemy, cinnamon arms wide open in welcome.
Blood and spit foaming at the corners of her mouth,
she said,
kindness isn't a two-way street.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
I want conversation and car rides,
long nights of green eyes.
I want pastries with whipped cream,
text messages that make me kiss the screen.
I want belted Frank Sinatra,
followed by Moonlight Sonata.
I want gifts I can't afford
that you bought when you were bored.
I want to be calmed and collected,
defended and protected.
I want knowledgeable open-minds,
loquacious words to be defined.
I want my hands to be called soft
and looked at more often
I want my neck to be smelled
then my face to be held.
I want impressed parents,
please share your organic carrots.
I want admiring looks
over the top of Ayn Rand's books.
I want a loss of words
over a song that you just heard.
I want minor disputes
over ideas that don't compute.
I want you to continue to listen
when I question your decisions.
I want button-ups and bowties
that make you different from most guys.
I want time to freeze
and for you to always need me.
I want envious stares
from people who shouldn't care.
I want effortless chemistry
to attract me helplessly.
I want tension filled days,
say you want me with a gaze.
I want my back to be a painting so scandalous
you brush your lips up and down the canvas.
I want clean, boring sheets
to be livened with heat
that I provided.
I want you to be excited
when I come around.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Maybe today I can smile even
Under the grey sky
Lit only by a weak sun
Take time to read not to run
Inhale the spring air
Plan a pain free day! plait my hair
Lounge without lethargy
Excite my day by not falling or bawling!
Soak in a bath filled with rose oil
Chop and cook for a meal
Love without the twin of hate
Endevour to finish Ayn Rand
Relay all my feelings in this one day
Only be happy!
Sit without numbness, or nuisance
Instill positive thinking, leave Eeyore behind
Say thank you to the day that made me feel human.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
Equality and the Golden One
Wrote with her hand
scribed a desire so primal
inside all of us
A union formed of prose
describing an Anthem
a value, reason
without number disavowing
a collective will.
Men are free, Ayn said
In turmoil Equality and the Golden One
found the tunnel and electricity
and began again
our struggle.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
You have a Wednesday stuck to your over-sized, hand-me-down, turtle-neck sweater.
The one with a hole in the elbow of your right sleeve.
It was hand stitched by a real machine, but not in Ireland.
You have a Wednesday snagged. Perhaps a loose thread became entangled, midweek ?
And now you have Wednesday, everywhere you go....
I only mention, because I noticed...
And it totally goes with that Monday
In your eyes.
Is that your Existential Crisis; parked right outside ?
I hope you fed the meter.
I can see where you spent your spiritual currency.
From every angle, simplicity of design !
Just a chasm and no plot. Elegant lines -
That wind up vanishing from the ' Unspeakable Frame '
Beyond the Border of What You Dare Think...
I have one just like that !
But mine has a concrete hunch about the whole thing.
A suspicion engine
So nothingness can't seem to live without me. But -
I see you have that thing you just hope isn't the truth
And I used to have that -
But now I just have a Headache.
I'm crushing on your Ayn Rand funeral parties
And that outrageous, bobble-head Doubting Thomas on your dashed hope.
Let's sit at that table by the window
And stare at each other as long as the window has nothing in it.
That should give us aeons to get to know each other.
There's no Law that says " I'm sorry for being such a stupid Law "
So without pause, we should defy our Separateness.
I'll ask for a clean fork in the road
And we'll see what that get's me....
Ah-ha !
I finally got a laugh
That didn't come from inside my skull.
A laugh that had good taste in men, and no idea where it came from -
But remembers how the couch made the carpet work.
The Abyss goes with everything, but you left it in the closet...
You know -Why unpack ?
That laugh was naked.
It gave me those Goosebumps
That can beat up Other Goosebumps.
Would you like to have some chai ?
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
.I don't dream of Aphrodite.
My small muscles not too mighty.
Who should tell me how I should feel?
Winter days have feathers flighty.
Where can I find some time to steal?
Another green organic meal!
My life goes on disorganized.
It fills my soul with zip and zeal.
Find gold touching Midas' eyes.
Atlas shrugs just before he dies;
And Ayn Rand ran to Xanadu.
My echo waits for your replies.
Then outer space starts out as blue--
Jupiter spins on axis true.
Dark side of moon. Oh! What a view!
But I still want to be with you..
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 7:26 PM UTC
you were the type of girl to read Ayn Rand
thinking o what good ideas in this Fountain
I was the type of who'd join a tontine
and play Russian roulette with self
till dead from cop killer bullet to head
or encourage co-conspirators
bury me 6 feet deep
you decried what joy there is in order
I cried out swollen summer sadness
what joy (is there at any joy at all)
in this madness
pointing out the chaos of everything
order in chaos is wishful thinking
for apes liking everything in neat little
wax paper wrapped deli packages
your satisfaction is my dismay
yet I cannot look away
wash me clean after
I sully you suddenly with
sickly sullen pallid mess
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
That fake forced smile, so much harder to crack today, sits on your face as if drawn by a carnival face painter. It seems the weight of the world sits on your shoulders; you want to do as Ayn suggested Atlas might do and shrug. The words don’t come easy but you string together false feelings, greetings, forged hellos, and jesters of alliance that have the sincerity of your televised evangelical preacher demanding dollars for your soul’s security. You walk among your peers eyes forward, hiding emotion and grief. Trembling inside you make each step carefully as if gravity itself is God pulling you to your knees.
You try to remember your loves smile as you kissed her good bye. She’s off to start her day. The world at her feet she strides with unfathomable opportunities for her young life. She is the reason you walk and breathe amongst this empty humanity. But even her striking smile, brilliant, brown, glitter laden eyes, and young shimmering skin can’t pull you from this overwhelming failure. Boxed in now, feelings, kind words and well wishers don’t penetrate. The light at the end dims and reason takes foot. Nothing makes sense.
The phone rings, your plastic smile is turned back on, you’ve got a machine to grease.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC
He told me once,
at seventeen,
in my parents' attic,
that he would be a star,
remake the world
in his own image,
forge his life
by his own hand
with his own tools.
It would all happen,
he assured me,
through his own will
and determination.
Other people
were unnecessary;
fate, destiny, karma
and bad luck
only existed
in the heads
of losers,
not for him.
He was exempt.
Nothing could stop him.
He declared
himself
invincible,
(he had been reading
Ayn Rand)
and smiled
patronizingly
at my own
pathetic hippie
lack of ambition.
Now,
forty years gone,
divorced, broke
and unemployed,
he bums a cigarette
and whines
about the economy.
Apparently
the world
had other plans.
- mce
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
*Sorry witches weird
Ayn Rand was sociopath
Welcome to Hellfire*
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
Refrain from playing the looter
Or the parasite who takes
But always remain a builder
And known as one who makes
Yes build your life, proud and true
This is the Bitcoin way
Though looters claim we owe them
As Ayn Rand used to say
The looters count on Atlas…
That he’ll hold the world in place
But one day he will simply shrug
And the world will fall through space
Stand a maker, not a looter
Though the looters grow in size
Yes, swear by your love of life
That looting you’ll despise
Resist the urge for easy life
Prove strong as a woman or man
For either you’re a looter
Or you build everything you can
Our hands work and our minds conceive
And freely with others we trade
And let’s convert some looters
And end the looting charade
Feb 13, 2023
Feb 13, 2023 at 1:20 PM UTC