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“Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.”
                                                    ­ George Orwell, 1984* (published in 1949)

Which brings us, of course, to the subject of torture since 1949.
Come with me to the Casbah, Babaloo.
We begin in the 1950s with the French in North Africa,
****** baguettes in Algeria,
Couilles frits, anyone?
Electrodes wired to Mustapha’s *****.
And "Bigeard's Shrimps,” as the bodies were called,
Dumped over the Mediterranean from aircraft,
All things considered a je ne sais quoi,
Though Camus and Sartre gave it a whack.

Then the 1960s: the CIA dabbling in mind-control and LSD.
Later, a Phoenix Program,
Very secretive, sympathies with the Cong required,
Various elders selected,
The village disinfected,
**, **, ** and a bowl of Pho.

Apartheid anyone?
Thirty years of South African terror & torture.
Torment in the townships,
Shaka Zulu gold and diamonds,
De Beers in Swaziland swing.

1971: riots at Attica,
Prisoners abused and tortured,
Rockefeller’s overcrowded slammer,
An upstate New York katzenjammer,
Nelson’s finger on the trigger,
39 dead and counting,
But who’s counting?

The CIA, back in the news in 1973,
Torture chambers under Chilean soccer stadiums,
And the Khmer Rouge:
Those Wacky Cambodians with skull racks.  
And let us not forget the British,
With centuries of colonial experience behind them,
Occupy six counties in Northern Ireland.
Finally codify the imperial process,
The Five Techniques:
Sounds like a Motown group,
Satin smooth colored boys,
But more method than music:
(1) Wall-standing,
(2) Hooding,
(3) Subjection to noise,
(4) Sleep deprivation,
(5) No food and drink.

And there’s a bunch of horrible ****,
We still don’t know about the Argentine ***** War,
And other Mai Lai-like,
****-fest massacres in Vietnam.

How about torture since 1984?
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo,
Come quickly,
(www.prematureejaculatorsanonymous.com)
To mind,
As do US-sponsored rendition facilities,
Spread throughout the NATO alliance.
And closer to home, it’s never a dull moment in the 5 Boroughs:
Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, The Bronx and Manhattan.
Take your pick from Giuliani’s Greatest Hits,
Rudy Kazootie’s campaign of law and order,
Not necessarily in that order.
More awful than lawful,
A bathroom plunger rammed up,
The Haitian voodoo ****** of Abner Louima,
While he be handcuffed at a Brooklyn station house.
Or, the NYPD partying like it was 1999.
When in fact, it was1999,
And a curious death it was for Amadou Diallo,
Would-be American citizen from The Republic of Guinea,
(No connection to Italy or Italians),
Abner & Amadou: a pair of cautionary tales,
Either/or reflecting standard procedure for the Po-Po,
Time and time again from coast to coast.
Either/or: poor Abner, no Haitian Papa Doc.
Poor Amadou, on his way home from night school,
When police squeeze off 41 rounds,
Most of them in his direction,
Hitting him 19 times.
Just the facts, ma’am:
Diallo had reached into his jacket.
A trigger-happy police officer yells “Gun.”
A jungle warfare quartet springs into action:
Shenzi, Banzai, Ed & Zazu,
Four equally trigger-happy colleagues,
Empty their weapons.
No gun was found on Diallo,
Only the wallet he tried to pull out,
Containing his Green Card,
4 U.S. dollar bills;
And a laminated,
Credit card-sized copy of the U.S. Bill of Rights.
(I just didn’t know when to quit, did I?
The wallet was there with Green Card and the bucks,
But I made up the part about the Bill of Rights,
Trying to add poetry to tragedy, as usual.)

I don’t have to say much about Rodney King (RIP).
You watched it on TV a hundred times,
And a picture’s worth a thousand words.
Or ten thousand or a million, I suppose.
“Can’t we all just get along?” asked Rodney Glen King.

Last but not least there’s Kelly Thomas (RIP),
Another incidence of police insanity,
It was July of 2011 in Fullerton, California.
Thomas, a 37-year-old homeless man,
Schizophrenic, but unarmed,
Beaten to death at a bus depot,
During an altercation with six Fullerton police officers.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2019225/Kelly-Thomas-Poli­­ce-beat-taser-gentle-mentally-ill-homeless-man­-death.html#ixzz1e­3­4QnHtr

Mervyn Lazarus | Attorney | (www.mervlazarus.com) Police Brutality, Excessive Force and Jail Injury cases | California . . . Albuquerque

Jackie Chiles perfect attorney -YouTube, (www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpcEietIoxk) Nov 17, 2010 - 13 min - Uploaded by Kroeger22 All the scenes with Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld."Chiles is a parody of famed attorney Johnnie Cochran; both ... www.seinfeld.com

Perhaps the greatest torture of all,
Is that which artists subject us to.
Let us examine the case of Roberto Bolaño:
Roberto Bolaño, the great Chilean writer,
Tells a fabulous World War II story,
About a Spaniard--an Andalusian--
Fighting for the Germans against the Russians.
Captured by the Russians,
He is tortured for information.
The Spaniard speaks no Russian,
He knows only four words of German.
The Russian interrogators strap him into a chair,
Attach electrodes to his *****,
Attach pincers to his tongue.
The pain makes his eyes water.
He said--or rather shouts--the word coño.
It is Spanish for ****.
The pincers in his mouth,
Distort the expletive,
Which in his howling voice comes out as KUNST.
The Russian who knows German looks at him in puzzlement.
The Andalusian was yelling KUNST,
Yelling KUNST and crying in pain.
KUNST in German means art,
And that was what the bilingual Russian heard, KUNST.
“This ******* must be an artist or something.”
The torturers remove the pincers,
Along with a little piece of tongue,
And wait, momentarily hypnotized by the revelation:
The word ART had soothed the savage beasts.
So soothed, the savage beasts take a breather,
Waiting for some kind of signal.
Meanwhile, the Andalusian bleeds from the mouth,
Swallows his blood liberally mixed with saliva, and chokes.
The word coño,
Transformed into the word *KUNST,

Had saved his life.
It was dusk when he came out of the building.
Light stabbed at his eyes like midday sun.

So, it’s a fact that I love,
Truly love the simple blunt Anglo-Saxon expletive ****,
****: I pray that while I am being tortured some day,
I have the dignity to scream the word out loud.
And if I am screaming **** at the very end,
When my nervous system finally fails,
When I **** my pants,
When my pulmonic heart and lungs collapse,
Is that so bad?
Is that so wrong?

Do you realize that 1984 came--
Came and went, without any significant cultural hoopla?
The networks ignored it.
As did the cable pundits.
No significant comparative analysis between,
Orwell’s book 1984 and the year 1984,
Was broadcast electronically or publicized in print.
Steve Jobs got it, but as usual no one else did.
Mr. Jobs (RIP) did his best,
To mainstream its profound cultural relevance,
But ultimately failed,
Despite the $1.5 million he paid one of the networks,
To air a one minute nation-wide commercial,
During the 3rd Quarter,
Of Super Bowl XVIII,
January 22, 1984.
Despite Ridley Scott’s astonishing spell-binder,
His 60-second spot for The Macintosh 128K--
Still considered a watershed event,
And an advertising industry masterpiece,
…YouTube it and watch it.  (www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8ji0B98IMo).
See the hammer throwing athlete chick,
See her fling the sledge,
That huge sledgehammer,
Smash into Big Brother’s flat screen face.
Despite Jobs’ global presence,
Despite Steverino’s unfettered microphone access,
Whenever he felt an oraculation coming on,
Despite everything,
He was unable to move the powers that be,
To either hype the book or the prophecy come true.

So, what’s my point? I have two.
First, in April 1984 the estate of George Orwell,
And the television rights holder to the novel 1984,
Considered the edgy Jobs/Scott commercial to be,
A flagrant copyright infringement,
Sending a cease-and-desist letter to Apple Inc.
And the advertising agency that produced the spot: Chiat/Day Inc.
The commercial was never televised as a commercial after that.  
Score: Lawyers 1, Artists 0.

My second point is that in November 2011,
The U.S. government argued before the U. S. Supreme Court,
That it wants to continue utilizing GPS tracking of individuals,
Without first seeking a warrant.
In response, Justice Stephen Breyer (one of the sane ones),
Questioned what this means for a democratic society.
Referencing Nineteen Eighty-Four, Justice Breyer asked:
"If you win this case, then there is nothing,
To prevent the police or the government from monitoring 24/7,
The public movement of every citizen of the United States.
So if you win, you suddenly produce what sounds like 1984 . . .”*

My third point,
(Yeah, I know I said two, but *******.)
My third point is that I’m just so ******* angry,
All the time, late and soon like Wordsworth,
(Was anyone more aptly named?)
I am angry about so many different things,
And every day that goes by I relate more and more,
To the thousands of Americans that occupied,
Zuccotti Park and Oakland,
And countless other venues,
Out into the streets.
Across the country.
Around the world.  
I am humbled by their courage and perseverance.
Yet, I am afraid for them.
I am made paranoid by the scope and power,
Of the government,
Of the ruling class that controls it,
And the technology they allow us to embrace,
Technology’s sinister potential,
Now that more and more knowledge and information,
Has been digitized,
Existing only in cyberspace.                                                      ­                                                 
What frightens most is the realization,
That anyone with a word processor,
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.
The scary part is—
Repeating myself for emphasis—
That anyone with a word processor
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.

Does anyone out there give a ****?
Does anyone out there share my nightmare?
Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia.
Cunning Linguist Aug 2015
Through a crowd
of homeless Vietnam war vets
Betcha I'm textin looking for more ***
From ****** galore
Open the back door and explore

Wreck that ***** (then I'm on to the next)
Next level ****, I'm on one at best
Deftly slip a little in your sister's sip
Now I'm caressing her *******
Hoping and praying my conquest ends with ******!
Yes, I confess I'm grotesque,
but I have finesse
I play that ***** like a game of chess

Bare witness -
I only ***** with the fattest of *******
Robbed a ******'s V-card
Now I'm charged with theft

I'm possessed and I have Tourette's
Ingested some drugs at the playground
Now I'm getting undressed
Digest my suggestive rhymes
I'm just a poor kid repressed
Manifest my pervertedness
My mind is a mess,
a nest
of enmeshed ******

And I obsess for excesses of distastefulness

It's disgraceful
My biracial angel
When I go directly from **** to ******
- In the blink of an eye
My *** game is fatal
Robbing the cradle & writing fables simultaneously
Screaming banzai!
Whilst I swan dive
straight into your ***** hole
& disable it

I'm insatiable,
Your mind is impregnable
Cause the impeccable mental images
I paint aren't erasable
Incomprehensible and intangible
Yet undeniable, I'm a despicable imbecile
Gazing in the peephole
Took a blindfolded stroll
down ***** lane and I'm on patrol
for an ocean of blowholes hundredfold

At the club so I dropped a bunch of Ecstasy
Take my shirt off so the ******* can all laugh at me
Tryna get the best of me
So I spite them out of jealousy
And absently drift away
through my mind to pornographic fantasy
My rhapsodic masterpiece
A mental form of ******
Getting busy in the squishy
til I'm dizzy in the hizzy
Swag, I do it valiantly

Turn it up this my jam
~Little ditty, bout jackin Diane~
Still a pity, too bad she's a man
Greasy ***** slap your eggs on my ham
If you'd prefer,
I might lend you a hand
Ram bam
bite the pillow I'm coming in dry
Don't be shy
Turn down for why
Either way have you in chains
by the end of the night

I'm a nemesis
***** slapping feminists
For emphasis
Hit em with a left fist
catching equal rights and ****
Yes I reek of cannabis
Can't handle bars I spit
Snide *******,
blame it on my pride and prejudice... ugh

I'm just a ******* egotist
An unrepentant hedonist
Check out Cunning Linguist
He da hypnotistic lyricist
This is my hypothesis
Maybe I'm just a nihilist
Detonating bombs
Catch me on the terrorist watchlist
Yes my words are devastating
But in your mind are resonating
Penetrating brains til it all begins disintegrating

I'm plastered
Falling over backwards
Mental state is fractured
Now watch me while I stagger
Tell your mother run for cover
Finna kidnap her


Pop pop
Got this **** on lock
Seeing double vision
Catch me jizzin in my sock

Steady speaking nonsense
Nearly unconscious
Bailing from the cops man
Too much Dwayne Johnson
***** have the nerve to call me obtuse
I be that Mr. got ***** the size of grapefruits
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
another June swept by
on see-saws, I cry
tears dwell my mind's eye
for playgrounds bone dry
my clouds puff the sky
rings of black sheep sigh
one by one nearby
no pasture to ply
my mind went awry
with no wool let fly
the beaten path, aye
the days, months, years lie
lie waiting to die
banzai to July
another month to pry
I sit and watch shy
for a piece of pie

Logan Robertson

7/4/2018
TheExpat Jun 2014
Single mind you've found    
To redress past ways                              
Each day winning ground    
Living life of praise  
Intone now banzai    
A spark to a blaze                              
New born samurai
I fell for a heart from another land.
A country of Peace and Martial Arts.
Green grasses and Banzai  trees... sweet smiles and hard workers.
Her smile melted my soul as her words she had written me
They made my heart smile.
I smile every time I look at her beautiful picture
Class,friendly times, and love for a family full of honor.
I long to fly to her
On tin wings.. To my lady from another land.
To bask in the native surroundings and molding within one another.
My heart longs for her
Even if I haven't told her such..
I know she feels my yearning to honorably be one with her spirit.
Truthiness...
In a world where lust seems to be the only expressed reward.
I value this smile and to learn of her "other land."
The orient where souls are free to be what they were design to be.
Tommy Johnson Jun 2014
Behold, the grueling chore or stripping down to your birthday suit
And listening to someone rattle off reasons why your appearance is sub-par  
Prattling about the depravity of the beautiful people
How they have to live in a world full of ugly, repugnant beings
"You seem to fit that description"
There's an elephant in the room and it's name is Irony
Depth is on the clock and shallowness is timeless

I deduce that you never got much attention as a child, and your parents put pressure on you with out considering that their callousness would rub off on you

Now you pelt those you see with insults and cruelty
When we met you came off as someone with unstable emotions
You told me that the root of all evil is the body and blood of Christ
And the expectations of your parents which they laid ahead of you we're unmet

I remember when you consummated your marriage to bitterness  
You did a banzai trip to the region of self-loathing for your honeymoon
I saw you off at the airport
You we're quasi-happy

You brought your acoustic guitar and scribbled words
Songs about undermining "The Man"
Dismantling the establishment
And grave robbing

You came back with bags under your eyes
A permanent frown
A cup that could never be filled
And a sense of superiority because you've suffered and no one could have survived what you'd been through

You told me the secret to your success was revulsion
And now you see me as scummy, worthless piece of nothing
When you yourself have become a ghost's shadow of the shell of your former self

******* my friend
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
how... how can i be content...
with... what's "new" on the internet...
well... i dunno...
                   dun'n'oh...
                     dickensian take on
east london shlang?
maybe that...
             the pickwick papers...
oh... sure... i'm still reading it...
had to put up a shed and get a suntan...

what's new... on the internet?
i forgot to buy vinyls...
shoes... hell... nooses and shoelaces...

i somehow set up facebook...
well... back in 2004 / 5... when you could...
only as a university student...
my old edinburgh email...
aushwitz galore:
           s07.... ****... should have asked
for a tattoo...

  oh my... it looks so pwetty now...
all lights out and minds.com sorta:
swish... look... like a drag queen revamp...

what's new? i don't have a twitter
account...
           how did these people figure
out what to do with the internet...
for a while hotmail chat rooms were hot...
for the expenditure of...
sending someone an instant message...
rather than... a postcard...

oh... poetry websites?
the likes to dislikes ratios?
the comment section antics...
clearly i don't have the capacity
for making videos...
imagine what that was... once...
like... taking photographs...
which implied: a whole lot of chemistry...
and dark-rooms...
feral red terminator style doom & gloom...
and putting a blank into some liquid
and waiting for the magic
of the image to appear...

what's new... on the internet...
i like the little corner: patience of a spider...
no... likes... dislikes...
the "audience"...
there's only me... and someone else...
this someone else... isn't...
diluted into numbers...
i don't engage with individual readers...
and... individual readers...
don't engage with each other...
in the comment section...

sorry... no twitter... facebook...
2004... what the hell happened to wattpad...
oh... right... i wasn't 14... i wasn't female...
i wasn't canadian...
what's truly new, though?
  
      the first three days were memorable...
cold-turkey...
  the tobacco levels were decreasing...
and the feet weren't used so much...
so i felt the gravity pull me into
a pseudo-****** of: getting nailed
to a windowsill while sitting on a folded
leg... harlequin crow impromptu...

what's new: i'm not a teenager with heart
breaking verse...
i've quit smoking...
well... apart from the 2 sly 'uns at the end
of the day...
this my little converter of shoving these
"details" into a drawer...
and somehow forgetting about it...

gnat's impromptu: the palette is making
a come-back...
what's new is that nothing's new...
not since using twitter was a "thong" /
thing... i'll be catching the midnight train
to the land of nod any minute now...
jacked up with...
bubblegum bourbon aftertastes...

with no hindsight: the cheap cigarettes
stopped flowing... black market moldova
kind...
internet banking internet shopping...
revisionist ulterior politico...
perhaps bird-watching...
or googlewhacking...
the lexicon of the gnostics:
something from the nag hammadi library...
the lament of ezra pound:
so few come to drink from my fountain...

ennoia... norea... na'amah...
          the apocryphal names of
             shemhazai, azza, ouza -
all three... interchangeable...
   the lust for mortal women...
perhaps akin to my lust for orc-women...
the fidgeting shadow of the ticking
clock: mind you: the abundant silence
of the rotating titans -
   a halo of saturn...
              the sly orb-rota of planets...

perhaps it isn't so necessary to invest
in a poetry platform... knowing all to well
that it's not a publisher...
it's teasing the publishers' whims...
when one invests in short-hand...
when one invests in...
  bypasses... cheats... when one...
is milked...
        and doesn't earn... a presence...
on the cuff... and tux and ironed shirts...

what's new... i've quit smoking and
i'm teasing the taste of rose buds...
the rest falls into a cohort line
of coscripted: cohesive... alligned chime
to rhyme and bitter geese strutting...

what role... to play...
the hyper-geometry of the pleroma...
alec... heavily on the hops...
side of... the brilliance of beer...
ale-lager banzai...
            pops... hops the drifter...
with no twitter and no alias...
          good at selling matchsticks...
hopefully moving up in life:
to tell...
   nails and hammers...
and parachutes...
and... lemmings...
              
            keeping up with...
                             twin peaks...
and... the x-files...
                    and...
                     that sacred motto of tao...
the best way to help the world...
is to forget the world...
and allow the world to forget you...
but... since the world comes...
regardless: invitation or none...
entertaining the world...

           and... the bed... who's aladdin?
my magic carpet ride...
             choo-choo train limbo...
lobsided details of...
that otherwise... easily stomached...
pint of stout...
best drank raw...
not used in cooking...
no! i will not use... an indian pale ale...
to give details to an irish signature:
of a worth of stew!

— The End —