"censor" poems
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at ****** are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to **** you
to **** anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
180k
a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get
if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess
lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
You tell me nothing should ever keep me at bay
I should speak what’s on my mind
And yet you censor what I say
Conformists following their set way
Unabashedly blind
You tell me nothing should ever keep me at bay
Thoughts leaping through my head like a ballet
In an elaborate design
And yet you censor what I say
Follow the script “Hello” “Good day”
Nothing new and all will be fine
You tell me nothing should ever keep me at bay
My words are clay
Moldable, unconfined
And yet you censor what I say
This world goes by in shades of gray
My rainbow is maligned
You tell me nothing should ever keep me at bay
A̶n̶d̶ ̶y̶e̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶e̶n̶s̶o̶r̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶s̶a̶y̶
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
Family Reunion
Had dinner with my parents tonight,
this week was the first time I’ve seen them together in my entire life,
honestly,
and even though I left home at 14,
all of the blame,
can’t really be put on either them or me,
because my parents had broken up,
since long before I was woken up,
separated for so long,
I often wondered if they were even ever together,
I brought them together for my birthday,
October 2016,
my father flew in from The States,
we all met in Thailand where my mom lives,
dinner was difficult,
my mom is losing her mind,
while she’s sitting there spilling her soul,
my dad just sits there and asks meaningless questions,
my mother sitting there saying how she has no money,
how she has no family other than us,
how she has no shoes on her feet,
and no real place to call home,
like I’m supposed to feel guilty for that,
like I don’t send her money all the time,
like I wasn’t in Thailand just to visit her,
like I’m a man now so she chooses to blame me,
like she’s chosen to blame every other man that’s ever been in her life,
how many husbands has she had now,
4 or 5,
maybe 6 or 7,
I don’t know I’ve lost count.
Seriously,
ridiculous,
what do you say to your mom,
when you think she’s a ****
and I know that might sound like a terrible thing to say,
but it’s the truth and I refuse to censor myself,
my,
self,
doesn’t even feel like me anymore,
not even sure if I’m a human let alone a man,
man,
the Atomic Family is more like an Atomic Bomb,
what a mess we’ve made,
and all in the name of what,
I have no idea,
honestly,
well,
it’s all probably a simulation always,
at least that’s what Elon Musk says,
“There’s a 1 in billions chance that we are not living in a Simulated Reality.”.
Makes me want to tell my parents,
that they are just part of a computer program,
but they’d probably just call me crazy,
and then just disappear…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
from The new book '777' available worldwide on Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1548700746
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
Free the ******
Live with less clothes!
Live with less ego...
Live with less standards.
Get rid of the borders.
You don't need that bread.
Underneath the pants
we all have the same parts,
There's vaginas,
There's penises,
and people who have both.
Right and wrong is like
***** and ******
Relative to perspective.
So who's to say,
who should love who,
or what one should do.
Don't tell me
what to do with my body!
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC
I find as I get older
I have to censor what I say
I can't say that a happy man
Seems very, very, gay
I never got the memo
When certain words were made taboo
I never got that message
I' missed that one , did you?
My Nan would send my brother
To the shops to get her ****
I know we aren't allowed to say this
I've been told by P.C nags
I remember the old story
Of Black Peter and St. Nick
Now you can't say either one
or you'd be branded quite the *****
There, I used another one
***** somehow made the list
Has anyone seen the memo
It's the one note that I missed
You must call someone Richard
You cannot call him ****
**** political correctness
Just brought me back to *****
If you sit and watch the telly
you can't put your feet up on a ****
that gets us back to gay again
The PC folks would hit the roof
Don't start me on Brazil nuts
Remember what we all called those ?
If I put that down in writing
I'd be PC'd in the nose
Men and Women are all persons
This PC stuff just makes me sick
But, just look at them both naked
There, I've worked back round to *****
It takes the fun out of saying swear words
You have to censor all the time
There might be a PC zealot
waiting for a language crime
So, in closing let me tell you
And I will do it with some class
They can take their PC memo
And shove it up their....buttocks (I think is the term used nowadays)!
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
Censor it.
Withhold it.
Nobody wants to know.
Don't ask. don't tell.
Don't spill. Don't show.
Censor it.
Withhold it.
Keep in under locks.
Think it, okay
But say it, do not.
Censor it.
Withhold it.
They don't want your opinion.
Society's your leader.
And you are its minion.
Don't be its minion
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
I remember my old Grampa
And the way he used to look
He had so many stories
He was much better than a book
I remember on our visits
While the folks would head outside
Gramps would get us grandkids
And take us for a story ride
He'd hitch up the hay wagon
We'd get up and off we'd go
Then gramps would start to talking
And so began the show
He'd tell us all the stories
Of our folks when they were young
Some he had to censor,
And sometimes bite his tongue
Now, Grandpa told the stories
Whether we were in or out
And we'd all sit and listen
To what they were all about
When we'd gather by the fire
He'd pull up his rocking chair
He'd have his pipe and all us grandkids
And his dog, Whiskey, always there
We'd all sit in front of Grandpa
We'd want to take in every word
And he would speak up louder
To make sure that we heard
He'd tell us tales of Cowboys
Of bank robbers and the trail
Of how the west became the west
And how his horse once lost his tail
The folks would gather round too
When it was almost time to go
But, Grandpa, being Grandpa
Wasn't set to end the show
See, he'd told the tales forever
To our folks and all their friends
You could tell that some were truthful
And in some the truth....well....bends
The older ones among us
Knew deep down that most were fake
But, to see old Grandpa work the room
Man, that man just took the cake
We'd get together monthly
All us kids stayed close to home
We weren't like lots of others
Who had that built in urge to roam
The stories, we'd learn later
Were mostly from TV
He'd be talking of those cowboys
And of how things used to be
A few years back we lost him
His dog had up and died
Gramps old heart was broken
He couldn't take it, though he tried
My brother tells the stories,
Not as good as Gramps at rhyme
But, the kids all hunker round him
I'm sure that he'll be good in time
We still go on the hayrides
Tell ghost stories now instead
To all us grown up grandkids
We still hear grandpa in our head
Each month we get together
There's near a hundred now in all
The kids go with my brother
And he tells tales ten feet tall
The stories are consistent
Of old cowboys and the west
I can close my eyes and listen
And still like Grandpa's versions best
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
Men are 3 to 7 times more likely to commit suicide than women.
Men account for 55 percent of the workforce, but account for 92 percent of workplace deaths.
Men live on average 5 years less than women.
Police shoot more white men than any other demographic each year.
The vast majority of people in prison are men.
The majority of people suffering from homelessness are men.
Men are encouraged to seek help with there mental health but are ridiculed or ignored when they try.
77 percent of suicides are men.
"Be more open about your emotions"
"Stop complaining, you have no right to complain"
"Man up"
"Don't be a *****
"That's not a real man's job"
"Grow a pair"
"You won't even fight back?"
"I need a man that can afford me"
"Men don't cry its a sign of weakness"
"Men have it so good"
"All men are trash"
**** all men"
Welcome to manhood.
Sep 29, 2022
Sep 29, 2022 at 6:56 AM UTC
grow a beard...
buy a jazz double-bass...
start stroking it...
attempt to look
pensive...
and then write some
Cockney
comedy... and?
**** Oxford.
**** 'em good;
can't be,
******* arsed...
where's a *******
jazz double bass
the kind i need to stand up
to play?!
where?!
gone, "nowhere"...
Achilles would sooner
find a tortoise,
you ******* half-whit
bull bullock base catcher...
yummy yummy...
no ******* double whammy
if there ain't
a greasy dough nnnnnnnn
in my mouth oozing a squid's
mating call...
from the Jules Verne estimate
of how...
big the ******* could become...
oh please...
**** is a conjunction
word...
akin to and...
spew effect,
regurgitation, founded upon...
so...
so... farting in a public place
is less offensive than
uttering a word of oath?!
**** me...
more ****
less ***** images...
i guess that's how you
habitually attack Christian
h'america...
**** **** **** and impose
a curb of a ***** show me the puppies
kitchen ***** Kentucky style
****
******* wankers...
dreaming up some ****
in long lost Cockney rhyming
slang for some:
willkommen zu verirrt amstetten...
....................
...................................
..............
................
SCHMILE...
boorish ******* gnomes dancing
the leprechaun gamblers' dance...
skivvy *************
sure...
censor the words...
but god forbid you censor
showing all the *******
because... if you do?
guess what...
i might forget my farming impulse...
of imagining a
a cleavage to also imply
a pork buttocks...
funny...
how a show of cleavage is synonymous
with a show of pork
buttocks...
and then i begin thinking of
milking...
which throws a ***** **** out
with the baby and the bathwater
and... i'm shinging...
what's that name of the place?!
New Orleans!
yeah...
like some minstrel in that
part of the world that
part of the world that's
a ********
what?!
you spew on me...
i spew on you...
we can at least exchange...
what we "love" about each other...
but i implore!
i implore!
visit Warsaw!
alone... no, not with other people...
ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e....
i'll be your companion,
when you peer at your shadow,
and attempt, to pretend,
to disappear.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/
Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/
Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/
Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/
Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/
Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/
Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/
Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/
You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/
An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/
Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/
Not just a part of me but all of me/
I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/
It's just the opposite actually and factually/
I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/
I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/
Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/
Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/
One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/
I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/
And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/
So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/
With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/
Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/
Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/
Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/
Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/
To let these words mold me into someone you could never be/
©2018
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 4:00 AM UTC
Your skills are no match for mine,
so you try and censor me while I speak.
You’re a fool waiting on the wrong block,
I’m far from delicate or weak.
My words will ruffle your feathers,
you’ll be shocked by the way I behave.
Then you’ll try to crush my passion,
or think you can badger it away.
You’ll soon learn I’m not an easy target,
my brazenness is here to stay.
My strong will won’t be corrupted,
I was born standing up and unafraid.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
You, you son of a Think
Everything I You did for you.
You piece of Can
What the Censor did you think would happen?
Are you Me surprised?
You shouldn’t be,
*You *******
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
The chicken baulked, "Phaulk!"
Before Latin chose to roll around,
And the "Librarian's sound, it"
Has been through pursed lips
Oedipus was clapping cheeks,
Long before Middle English clapped any,
When lions and tigers and bares
Were the prime predators
Even in The Garden,
Snake said as,
As snakes say as,
Where the language of choice I know,
Not to be English.
And if your dainty, sky-locked eyes soul and mind,
Remain unfazed by kid killers, or rampant rapers,
But try to censor my ******* ****
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
I.
Fireman, censor of literature and destroyer of knowledge, with his mighty flamethrower. He loves his work. He loves trouble and strife. He loves fascination with the people next door. Mostly, he loves his hammock. But sleep will be his final unrest.
II.
A gift for the darkness: reading from the forbidden kept hidden in the air-conditioning duct. The walls within turn on and off like Cora Pearl. His wife listens to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. They walk on as an extinguished connection. In the flickering of his eyeballs, he dreams of driving recklessly to Dover Beach and drowning her.
III.
Burning bright. He is burning so brightly. In the factory of mirrors, he takes a hard look. He's a flammable book. And it's a pleasure to burn. "What are you doing?" She asks. "Putting one foot in front of another." He answers.
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 3:31 PM UTC
~~~
*a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart,
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy get, easy spent
if only,
how I wish,
could harvest my best,
and with golden cutlery,
excise
the single flawless poem
that I know is in my possess
lay down this hand, so weary,
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that when my casket lowered,
two hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best,
to ease the rest,
a papered poem record to join his whited ash,
his flawless poem,*
his very best
*now eternal,
at long last*
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Like dried leaves fluttering
With trembling stems
From an earthly passage, She took
The high road when Winter called
Her back to the elements,
Back to the spiritual vent that yawns with souls.
In her gentleness remained memory – legacy;
A smirk – that fun, secretive thought
Whispering across bloodlines.
I could never know her as well as you --
That tight, heavy knot at the back of your throat.
That dull thud of a monotone ache perched in your gut.
That knowledge that she was two in the same:
Throwing the bread and serving it, too –
Spreading around discipline with comfort to follow.
She was The Maker; The One –
Now faded to brooches, to photographs, to stories.
I felt the muscles in your arm tense (As mine
did, too)
I felt the surge of tears beckon the realities of grief
Like the smoke curling ‘round the swinging censor
I know why you ignored the Holy Man; sermonizing
Her Life as if she were familiar.
His discourse as bitter, acrid tastes upon breathing morning.
His fabricated familiarity – the pinching, twitching nerve between your neck and shoulder.
Holy Man -- Bone Man –
We could proclaim the mysteries of Faith
But She taught us the permanence of Love.
She knew more; what she taught was
Tangible
Alive
Her Lesson more forgiving than any Act of Contrition.
Her Body more sustaining than any wafer of Christ.
Two side of the same blade –
The Love she taught us taught us Grief as well.
When she followed the Holy Man out – the Bone Man -
You, Her Son –
You knew.
You flew out like a sin to forgiveness
And staked your devotion, character, and eternal Love
Upon her dwelling.
One more tangible reckoning of her attendance here;
One more connection that grounded her presence on this plane.
We followed Her – We followed You
Blind to your seeded bond that will never grace any words on a page
Yet drawn to the Lesson she taught
And the Lesson you maintain.
We followed you
Like trails in water : molecules bound and devoting the leader we call Mother.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC
after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour.
why is poetry such a ***** of coding
daily activity...
who needs poetry if the everyday is intact?
atheism didn’t **** god...
it merely killed the logic of myth....
atheism is far worse than mythology...
it just regurgitates facts
to make you submit to them
without the necessary philosophical awe of
finding them interesting...
poetry isn’t dead... it’s a *****
which is worse than death where i come from...
there’s ezra with his fountain comparison:
‘i ****** in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it -
you **** in it... streaks of blue... i think
that’s called cubism in france.’
did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis
for the bomb sarcasm?
cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented
after sarcasam...
i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal -
there are too many stages in the differences of women,
i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going...
it’s like this thing that’s happening right now...
christian nations censor words... like **** cultish **** of the brothel...
and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk,
not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham...
one party censors words for excess *****
saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling,
we like dyslexia and **** teen **** graphic...’
sounds about right...
the other party says: ‘we hate censoring ***** words,
that’s doubly censoring,
censor ***** words get more dirt out of it...
we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for
the knobs!’
problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling /
punctuation / arithmetic -
that’s what i don’t get,
the ratio of the two languages...
all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation...
but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE
is so much more...
is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out?
in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc.
but in linguistics you have this permament reminder:
SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG.
well... ****** me timbers...
i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
I am sick and tired of
Living in a world where
I censor my own thoughts
Subconsciously
Because I have been taught
To suppress
Because I have been taught
To put off what is bothering me
Until it piles on top of
A ticking time bomb
That is destined to explode
At any time
Without warning.
I am sick and tired of
Having so many thoughts Overwhelming my brain
And not being able to put them
Into words.
I am sick and tired
Of being so afraid to speak my mind
That I make it impossible.
Aren't you?
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
You my Eraser
My words entering a vaume of contempt and your pompous praise
My glass is raised to you
As my head bows in subjugation
To you my muzzle
To you my totalitarian regime
To you my censor;
Never directly scolding
Never directly
Only molding fear
and unrest
with well postulated questions
Sculpting hesitations
Eradicating my compulsions,
erasing my freedom,
of
expression
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
It starts with a sensation of feeling it can't be real
This pain, this reality it all seems so fake
Living in turmoil yet being awake
We've created a fictional story for what we see
Lies have become "real" the virtual stains reality
Yet we are living in the creative dump
Hilary Clinton and Donald trump
Opportunists in this world of lies
The poet cries
But truth is hated more than the lies we perceive
and believe cause their sugar makes the medicine go down
No need to frown, because life is just for individuals like you
We all different but not one of us has a clue
Of what's going on
Corporations rule the media so what's wrong?
Censorship breaks even the strongest of minds
Leaves us cold but does anyone mind?
They feed us primal fears
While we our fed TV box sets of lives we want to lead
While soldiers bleed in wars we keep fighting
Just because of oil sightings
It's all bit pointless as the golden age of austerity kicks in
And the rich become fat eating the poor
and misery is a acquaintance who is in your house though you didn't answer the door
It's all normal check your email and censor your political correctness
It's all bull **** tell yourself it won't mean a thing
Your King or queen of nothing
and there is no God heaven was a bluff
It's not real it's tough
Because we could have made it heaven on earth
But fantasy was more beguiling
As we watch game of thrones we are smiling.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
Had dinner with my parents tonight,
this week was the first time I’ve ever seen them together in my life,
honestly,
and even though I left home at 14,
all of the blame,
can’t really be put on me,
because my parents had broken up,
since long before I was woken up,
separated for so long,
I often wondered if they were even ever together,
I brought them together for my birthday,
2016,
my father flew in from The States,
we all met in Thailand where my mom lives,
dinner was difficult,
my mom is losing here mind,
while she’s sitting there spilling her soul,
my dad just sits there and asks meaningless questions,
my mother sitting there saying how she has no money,
how she has no family other than us,
how she has no food on her feet,
and no real place to call home,
like I’m supposed to feel guilty for that,
like I don’t send her money all the time,
like I wasn’t in Thailand to visit her,
like I’m a man now so she has chosen to blame me,
like she’s chosen to blame every other man that’s ever been in her life,
how many husbands has she had,
six?
Seriously,
ridiculous,
what do you say to your mom,
when you think she’s a ****
and I know that might sound like a terrible thing to say,
but it’s the truth and I refuse to censor myself,
my,
self,
doesn’t even feel like me anymore,
not even sure if I’m a human let alone a man,
man,
the Atomic Family is more like an Atomic Bomb,
what a mess we’ve made,
and all in the name of what,
no idea,
honestly,
well,
it’s all probably a simulation always,
at least that’s what Elon Musk says,
“There’s a 1 in billions chance that we are not living in a Simulated Reality.”
Makes me want to tell my parents,
that they are just part of my computer program,
but they’d probably call me crazy,
and then just disappear…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC