Vacuous Dec 2014

Today is the day
I give into greed.
No matter who has to
kill, die, or bleed.
Everyone's heads come loose,
our corporate desire is for
your family life to end with a noose.
Today is a nice day,
all of us here agree,
that today and from now on,
is a nice day for greed.

Sincerely all corporations

Frank Ruland Dec 2014

Making you employees
Choke on minimum wage
Does nothing! You buy
Out voices with your lobbies!
No heart or soul as you turn the page
Against those who do their best to try
Living a life free of others' follies!
Daring to donate dollars and say you change
So much about life, while hopes die!

While you live the good life,
All those below you
Need to feed their kids,
Though, through your corporate strife,
Such desperate notions are slew!

People underneath your Golden Arches
Obviously aren't making near the
Very least to pay for life's charges!
Every chance you get, you stifle
Rallying cries, with checks larger
Than your employees will ever
Yield, so their lives all go ashes!

McDonalds spends millions of dollars a year silencing the voices of the working man. They protest wildly against raising minimum wages and do not care about their employees. McDonald's in Europe pay their employees $10-15 dollars an hour, but in the US they want to abolish minimum wages. If McDonalds raised the cost of a burger by just ten cents, they could afford to pay their employees more, but refuse. They sent an internal memos to their employees, telling them how to get by on $28 dollars a month for food, and advised employees to stop complaining. They do not care! Open your eyes to big business, people!
Prabhu Iyer Dec 2013

Airwaves awash in the new gospel barrage:
calling forth the neighbourhood hack,
Abe Lincoln toon in towering hat,  
the corporation is coming -
will you not
collaborate my friend?

Everything good that you ever dreamed of is here:
Marbonite floored flats with self-terraced roofs;
The swankiest of cars, in imported hues;
Your arm candy drools,
now, brands, bigger brands!

All in your grasp, now, in community gates
shut safe as society decays.

Skies spitting frogs? Pestilences amass?
Listen to the Gospel according to Bane:
in the desert, smell octane. Hallelujah,
everything we make, from watches
to headscarves - your underwear is cheaper
sourced from the next so-lala-land.

Forget your sources tiny of incomes varying:
Bakers, cobblers, tinkerers, we also have
a uniform for you. Oh you rustic
tradition-bound bandy bumpkins!
Abandon your alleyways, and
welcome to the ghettos...where

What you eat, to where to retreat:
we cure everything from heartache to panache.

Wash away your sins in wonder medicines;
Waters can part, yes, see how the Pharoah
is disarmed; Big city dreams, dream
global manna beams. All that is needed for
salvation, is a little bit of classification. Are you
left-wing or right? Center-left or center-right?

The powerdrill tearing down edifices
resonating through noon. A crane arm's shadow
hovering high by the moon. Tablets from skies
now proclaim the new gospel for the land,
the airwaves are awash
of the miracle of Witwatersrand.

The corporation is coming, to a store near you:
Amen! Will you not, then, collaborate, my friend?

howard brace Apr 2011

Rows of stone houses, all back-to-back
lined by the side of streets cobble set
housewives with shopping, segs in their heels
clopping down ginnels with ringing footsteps.

Cast iron lampposts, corporation green
daily were reset by clockwork it seemed
casting more shadow than light which to see
brimstone edged steps, scrubbed 'elbow' clean.

Sweeps on their rounds, in Summer would rush
cleaning the flues with rods and brush
kids in the street, staring in wonder
at soot snowing flurries, from porcupine pots.

Nutty slack in the grate, drawn by the pan
coal smoking stacks, pouring out grime
creels of damp washing, stealing the flame
when years end smog, jaundiced the sky.

A trip to the 'flicks', Saturday morning
'thrupence' for best seats, 'top-a-the-stalls'
rounds of cheers as good-un's were chasing
the bad-un's were boo'd, soon to be caught.

In 'wellies an scruff,' we went to the 'flea-pit'
with 'ha-peth o' cheap spice', soothing the throat
food for thought, all week long
and played them all, the films we saw.

Cowboys and Indians, cap guns held high
annoying the neighbours, 'bye it were grand'
riding the range on imaginary horses
best we ride on, with slap of the hand.

'Play in yer own street', my recallection
and 'geer off mi steps, they've jus-bin-swilled'
yet still we 'mucked out' with die-cast toys
against the 'midden', and on the walls.

No more adventure, making own fun
young-un's today don't know how it's done
cartoon and serial, games of war
we'd launch to the moon, upon the see-saw.

...   ...   ...

Mind over matter
Your mind focused
on the latter
as you tried to climb to the top
with no perception for disaster

They call it high risk options;
sheer prayers for returns.
But all the bits of your brain
didn't care about who burned

Can't slap cuffs on an entity
So I guess it's lesson learned
in their equity
though one finds that the fines
can still burn

Every willing ear
mixed with the
right tone of trust

Acknowledgement in gold
soon traded away to dust

If the brain believes
its body should live forever,
then where's the fear
of a burn when confronted with an ember

so they never think a spark
can elevate higher
ignorance is fuel,
greed sets this structure fire

Man the troops!
The sky is falling!
The city's set ablaze
and the sirens are calling!

We're supposed to save the people,
but the people pay first
save the buildings with
these bails of water
even if the people thirst

New body, same mind.
It's done so many times
one comes to think its rehearsed
The ticket price is high,
the play leaves the people
feeling cursed.

Justice is lost
Paper gone inflated
Don’t expect to recover anytime soon.

Spending, spending, spending
Killing any value
The massive corporation in bed with everyone.

I’m not talking about Walmart or Exxon or Apple
I’m talking about those on The Hill
What else would they be?

A massive conglomerate of corruption and thievery
Who can decide who dies when
And who the true enemies are.

Snowden is not a patriot they say
But how can he be anything but
No so-called Democracy deserves this right.

Our paper is dying
But keep on falling for ‘hope’ or ‘change’
By the massive two
Who will control, control, control
Until you decide to say fucking no.

Justice is lost.

Micheal Wolf May 2014

Inch worm, inch worm can't measure marigolds
Because a firm owns them and the tape measure.
They own the soil, the land and water, we have no stake anymore.
0ne firm own the water, how is that so?
Is soylent green closer than we know

Vamika Sinha Aug 2015

Insipid darkness
is no better womb for
Decent thoughts, maybe good
GREAT thoughts.
Thoughts that will flow
like the lava of imported electricity
not-but-should-be circulating in Gaborone's veiny grid.

But who cares?
Well, okay, your mother, now swearing
at the singed-black TV screen
(she's missed her daily soap).

Mother Darkness breeds thinkers.
Tell me, in the scramble for your cellphone flashlight,
did you find your inner Plato?
Ah, no, you surely became
a lightbulb,
humming with the shocks of unwritten words.

It is these minutes of lightless inertia when
it's best to tap your swollen top instead
of lighting a candle.
See, sun rays and tube lights dull the finish of ideas;
corporation-induced darkness provides more suitable conditions.
So you must tap the glass globe on your shoulders
and feel, yes,
feel the grey filament
within, buzzzzzzzz


Edison's 'Eureka!' finally
happening, as all 'Eurekas!' do, in
(literally) colourless mundane.

(Note to self: Write a thank-you email to that pathetic power corporation for your rebirth as a glow)

Thoughts and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts and  
coming in viscous gallops,
extra voltage baby, thoughts!
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,


You are no longer living!
You exist as shards of yes, one GREAT whole,
one...brace-taste the word now...

You are glimmers of something greater.
You are hot charges of energy your country failed to harness.

Sparked at the flick
of a lazy corporation's switch:

cut the power which
cut the flow in the varicose veins of Gaborone which
cut your bedroom's plastic brightness which
cut the bored-contented moment you were wallowing in which
cut your breath (still-half-scared of the dark, you) which
cut the blood flow to your grey matter which
cut the oxygen supply, replaced the fuel with electricity

and then you could think.


what will you do with them? If
you dare the sun's brilliance,
you might land up as some poor Icarus;
if you wait a half-volt longer,
I'm afraid the fuse will blow, madam and
your mother cannot comprehend these blue-light shocks,
please find a paper and a pen

So the electricity must, after all,
power something.
And in the crackling dash
to eke out your blow-blaze-brim-burn words
onto something that will last longer
than today's ration of blackness,

the power comes back.

Mind chars into itself.
Snuffed too soon, you pathetic power corporation,
why did you put me out like that?

Your mother turns to you and mutters
'Thank God.'

This poem has a second meaning too, if you bother to think about it. Maybe sit in the darkness to figure it out?
Jacob Giggey Sep 2015

The world is filled with swine in suits and ties,
hogging down and shitting out lies,
stopping here and there,
to trim their tusks and tame each others hair,
for appearance certainly is a must,
when you're a creature none should trust.
Sludge and slop goes to the top,
to feed the greedy boars.
The filthy whores spread their legs from shore to shore
always wanting and demanding more and more.
From behind a locked door,
somewhere on an eighteenth floor,
you can hear their squealing cries,
smell their wretched sties,
and feel the hate that pours,
from their blackened beady eyes.
Use caution where you tread,
and think before you fill your head.
Be careful with which words you choose to believe,
for not everyone is who they seem to be.

GaryL Jan 2015

get away, don't even look at me
if you had your way, you'd throw the book at me
trained paranoia
all you see is the crooked me

we are all suspects

let me be, don't even follow me
i'm not free, you want to collar me
crime corporation
all you see is the dollar me

we are all paychecks

The man with a dapper hat
Indeed did not stand a chance
With his miraculous ways of business
And the practice he criticized while doing it
As he ignores his children and never bothers to kiss his wife goodnight
And he had never read a book for pleasure
Because he was all about business
As he moved his way up the corporate ladder
While feeling purpose and purposeless
And contemplated his white collar status
But never complexly enough
So as he reached the age of 50
He suddenly saw before him an age of regret
As he broke down and cried
And wondered what the hell he had done
‘What are we all doing?’
‘What are we all doing?’
‘What was I doing?’
‘What was I doing…?’

He died of a heart attack five years later
And no one cared to remember him
Except his wife and children
Who almost scoffed at the notion of his death
And did not even seem to care he was gone
They felt an obvious sense of dread
That comes with almost all death
But he would not be remembered positively
Because he had made his way up the corporate ladder…
…And why not?

The finger casually snapped back
And nobody wanted to live like this
But he was too late
As he faded like a vapor trail…

People are just people
They’re going to die someday
But you didn’t care, did you?

Brother Jimmy Jul 2016

Brother Jimmy, stop a while, take a seat and listen ...
Listen to the whoosh of the A/C ebb and flow...
It seems imbibing corporate rules and little lies that glisten
Is not a healthy diet, don't you know(?)

This place has got you sick and tired and haggard as a hound
But bless your soul with rock, and roll your eyes, you stilted hack,
Though this time, maybe, wait until review time comes around,
"The man" is just the man to hold you back

We find that just a tad of mirth to hide the grit-teeth might,
Just be the way to keep the ship from sinking.
And when the pounding's in my head, my eyelids clamp down tight,
My prayer then, is reign me in, and guard me from free thinking

Things would be easier if I were a mindless robot.

Freedom is the slavery that
governments will let you see,
voted in
democratically by blind men
who were always free, there
is no hope for you or me and
history is written in
our chains

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