"denizens" poems
#
*Through the withered branches
where the verdant leaves once grew,
I stared up at the old oak tree
against a sky of blue.
The branches stretched to heaven
as a supplicant might do.
It seemed to pray, as if to say,
"My time at last is through."
I wondered at the gnarly trunk
and limbs of twisted wood
And for a moment thought of life
and almost understood.
Life and death go hand in hand.
Our time is our's to spend.
But like the tree against the gale,
‘tis better if we bend.
I'll pay it forward when I can.
Thy brothers' keeper be.
I'll keep the roots well watered
and learn the lessons of the tree.
It shares the world with nestlings
and it's acorns oft abound,
To feed the hungry denizens
that glean them from the ground.
It's leaves give shade to those below.
It's branches form a gym.
Children climb to see the world
and love this gift to them.
And as I watched, the farmer
came and laid the old husk low.
Firewood now, would be it's fate
and make the chimney glow.
Ashes unto ashes and to dust
we must return.
All of life in cycle goes
and from this I hope to learn:
This gift of life to all below,
all creatures great and small,
Is just a stop upon the trip
we travel, one and all.*
#
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
my darkest poems
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious
a well of torments
soup of Salmonella
the souls gut
its cauldron
yet not with out lurid enticements
and voluptuous supplicants
gorgeous
like an eight legged woman
with beautiful feet
drooling **** lips
drunk on sacrificial rituals
of blood black tongued kisses
and hideous contorted pleasures
********
once
exquisite archetypes
gods and goddesses
are now
putrefied
cellar dwellers
moaning in nature bed crypts
of rock, stone
and engraved sigils
because honest pure desires
became fragmentary
and are now gimping amputees
by legions of primal disappointment
while faces blare in the world
like super bright L.E.D.s
shinning paths to others
our deep self
remains patinaed in tears
a black box pox with a lock
the skeleton key lost
in arcane seas
out of utter disgust
for those dark crawlers
that live within us
revealing them selves
as anxieties, depressions
suicides
and myriad quiet despairs
we appear undaunted
to others
and they to us
humanity
muffled ticks
and splintered sticks
my poems let my demons out
yoo who its me
my name is spray snake z
with my hooks and cries
and dark blood skies
in the misty night
i dragged out their earthen coffins
legends of the despicable
resurrected them
fed and loved those darklings
had every conceivable union with them
their healing, my own
ive sexualized them
and found love
albeit twisted
to be adored
in a hidden embrace
i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy
while obsession takes hold
bind it not
nor let it bind you*
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Corpses proliferate in soaring violence; heirloom of franchise and eminence— perish in erosion.
Timid denizens of derision, cynicism in roaring silence — optimism’s paling vapor—commodity of Indecision, our halcyon days forgotten.
Chosen token of audacity; the onyx maladroit feigns, prevaricating beneath the Sacred canopy.
Etudes of apathy; attrition unlamented; streams of guile— quixotic squall conversely merge — veiled conceit, eloquent arrow of equivocation.
The policy of attenuation.
Treason’s vine obscured beneath the blind surf of consent.
© 2014 & 2016 W. S. Warner
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
If I were ever to chance upon, a real life Genie
and being ever so kind, he granted me wishes freely
I wouldn't waste any time, and ask him quite loudly
'Give me a Flying Carpet, and make the sky cloudy!'
Astride my bed with wings, I would swiftly reach the sky
and dive through the clouds like through butter a hot knife
feeling the wind in my hair, laughing with unbridled glee
as a soaring eagle feels in the air, light, and free
Next I'd become a Lion, to roar and roam the jungles deep
Growling and tearing into poachers, and savoring the meat
I would rule all the mighty creatures, as their rightful king
and all the forest's denizens would my praises sing
Soon after I would ask for a ship, and a crew of souls brave
I would visit all lands afar, upon my Master of waves
without a single glance behind and not a spot of bother
I would see and feel and taste all the world has to offer
From above I'd go beneath, diving as a blue whale
The murky depths of the oceans whistling past my tail
All the wondrous sea dwellers, and all the buried wonders
would become a part of my enchanting under sea tale
Last of all I'd ask the genie, to build with his hand
a nation built for all the poor orphans of every land
where they eat and drink and make much merriment
and also study, play, and sleep with gladness in them
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.
Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?
As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Olwen grew after mid-winter's passing
the wind had sung her a child's name
she knew her time was now come
the man she picked was strong and wise
and she had seen his death was anigh
the great gift she would give him
a girl child she would carry, birth and teach
her first word would be the name of him
who was to fall in the cattle raid to Seisysllwg
no man to own her or claim her
Olwen mothered
a world of dreams
a world of knowing
she knew the seasons
and the schemes
of life growing
hares and foxes
would sleeep at her feet
enemies before her
would not fight but retreat
Olwen's way was of care and of love
her power of the earth and skies above
no denizens of dark and deepest hate
would stand her eyes that saw their fate
fast eye
clear sky
brown flash
passes by
beast or bird
we cannot see
good Olwen
watching over thee
The child came in the autumn months
gold- clad meadows bear the last of mother's bounty
as she came into the world scythes cut the last bushel
weak with the birth she carried the child
to the stone on plynlimon's east side
"let the source of the five feel the spirit of this child
carry her through her life with power and love..."
When Cariad was five she took her to the great marsh south of the Dyfi
and watched as the child threw her father's sword back to his spirit
further than any man could throw
ask not for power
for your arm
ask for strength
in your heart
ask not for dominion
over men
seek love
for the world
ask not for thyself
anything you
would not give
away freely
no shadows came to dwell in the hills and vales
where peace eternal dwelt with power of hearts
Olwen slept after one mid-winter's passing
She died when the spirits asked for her
Cariad bore her to the Plynlimon stone
where all wise women's bones will lie
The rivers remember her eyes
The trees remember her wisdom
The birds remember her song
The stars remember Her dreams
The Stones of Deheubarth
remember their Wise-Woman
when Moon and Sun rise
and the shadows flee
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 9:10 AM UTC
Man is not worried in the middle
Man in the Middle
Is not Worried
He knows his Karma
Is not buried
But his Karma,
Unknown to him,
May end -
Which is Nirvana
Wild Men
Who ****
Have Karmas
Of ill
Good Men
Who Love
Have Karmas
Of dove
Snakes are Poor Denizens of Hell
Have come surreptitioning
Through the tall grass
To face the pool of clear frogs
5.2k
#
*Come explore my fantasy with thrills and spills galore.
Let’s check our inhibitions and our morals at the door.
It's colorful and vigorous (No "Fifty Shades of Gray").
The safe word will be "rainbow"...(You won't need it anyway.)
Because this fantasy's a realm where denizens can dwell
In peace and love and kindredship, where greed has lost its spell.
Within this dream of dreams we'll find our secret heart's desire.
And with it will come happiness that sets the heart afire.
A time to wake from bitter dreams and steer a course of grace.
And with this resolution, any crisis we might face.*
#
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:41 AM UTC
at the furthest
reach from me,
somewhere on the other side
of these lucid hills,
a box of sun has been
opened,
cut into manageable
pieces,
and given to all the young
dreaming denizens,
to blow with all
they have
inside their strong little
lungs--
up,
up,
upward
into the sky,
circulating light
until it dawns as us all.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 10:00 AM UTC
It was a dissonant melody that made the lonesome mole weep from his blind eyes
and there were mascara stains on the face of a pensive ********** lady in the streetlights
When the orchestral waves wound up at the shores of a sandblasted city
the denizens were too afraid to speak out against tyranny, and they died
Wistful wonderment in the souls of the children as they walk hand in hand
and experience the crumbling of wonton rocks in the skies of their homeland
A celestial boom, droning on the streets, and the women are beat
Are you outraged yet?
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
*blondes, brunettes and redheads,
the goodbye colors of the
street's tree choir members
and their leafy gowned denizens,
the good stiff chill upon them,
the selfsame chill
in my anguished mind
now hiding,
sing a comfort food song
heard above the quiet terror of the
noises of a fall winters-wind precursor
"once we green,
once we were renewal,
life everlasting emblems
once,
you were wee,
green uncaring and free,
presuming that you too,
were in possession of
life everlasting
your colors have changed as well,
endless is the process,
only slower than
a tree's scheduled maintenance,
moreover,
returning you to your first
crayon drawing youth
unlike us, an impossibility
we will turn young again
for many seasons more,
you
never will
new eyes will feast upon our
glories refreshed and love our
cast shade cast
yet special are you the man,
poet who was chosen
to see and tell,
witness to our resurrection,
during our overlapping,
parallel continuum in time
when to the shade of hades
you physic sent,
our limbs, our leaves,
our perennial lives,
for-as-long-as-they-shall-last,
will cover thy remains and
give your poems back to the
sultry summer breeze from
whence they came
and the colors
of your words
will be the colors
of a free life everlasting"*
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
tropical breeze waves washed upon a
soothsayer sand beach whispering love poems between each sigh
seagull clouds baying from above
lustrous sunshine massaging with temperate beams
beneath the waves, turtles twist in tubular turnabouts
bright coral and jaded fish teem in the reef
shimmering sunshine shining through waves
casting shadows and light amongst an oceanic spectrum
we flit through the ocean as foreigners and locals
tiny air bubbles pressing from our lips
unlike the denizens filtering through the reef
we press up to the surface and break through for breath
exiting the ocean of life, we wash upon the shore
driftboards sewn together in matrimony
our clam shelled hands interwoven in the fabric of our souls
sand pressed between to make a glistening pearl
i sit up while you lay down on our thin towels
falling asleep with an upward curve on your lips
i trace my finger down your back like pencil to paper
drawing each crevice, perfection, and blemish
on the landscape of your body
a faint breeze ghosts through the swaying palm trees
dolphins nonchalantly diving through the air and ocean
***** scuttling along the precipice of the sea and sand
waves washing the crooked edges of stones
amongst this equilibrium we are infinite
soaking up this portrait life like a sea sponge
in these moments we are infinite
moments we imagined we had
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
So primitive that it should be criminal
like a limited pyramid of minimal
innocent citizen, inhabitant, or denizen
infinite vision and mission subliminal
principled, committed and disciplined
addicted to the privileged derivative
affirmative velocity, motive inquisitive
inhabiting, uninhibited, where prohibited
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
We have a small sculpture of Henry James on our terrace in New York City.
Nothing would surprise him.
The beast in the jungle was what he saw--
Edith Wharton's obfuscating older brother. . .
He fled the demons
of Manhattan
for fear they would devour
his inner ones
(the ones who wrote the books)
& silence the stifled screams
of his protagonists.
To Europe
like a wandering Jew--
WASP that he was--
but with the Jew's
outsider's hunger. . .
face pressed up
to the glass of ***
refusing every passion
but the passion to write
the words grew
more & more complex
& convoluted
until they utterly imprisoned him
in their fairytale brambles.
Language for me
is meant to be
a transparency,
clear water gleaming
under a covered bridge. . .
I love his spiritual sister
because she snatched clarity
from her murky history.
Tormented New Yorkers both,
but she journeyed
to the heart of light--
did he?
She took her friends on one last voyage,
through the isles of Greece
on a yacht chartered with her royalties--
a rich girl proud to be making her own money.
The light of the Middle Sea
was what she sought.
All denizens
of this demonic city caught
between pitch and black
long for the light.
But she found it
in a few of her books. . .
while Henry James
discovered
what he had probably
started with:
that beast, that jungle,
that solipsistic scream.
He did not join her
on that final cruise.
(He was on his own final cruise).
Did he want to?
I would wager yes.
I look back with love and sorrow
at them both--
dear teachers--
but she shines like Miss Liberty
to Emma Lazarus' hordes,
while he gazes within,
always, at his own
impenetrable jungle.
3.2k
there's a crazzzy devil
in
the white house
twisting our nation
into a denizens den
a tub of **** in a suit
ascending ***** matter
in
a clogged toilet
a black plague
we have a president with the attention span
of sea clams
an emotional ******* drip of impetuosity
a spiraling fit of rage
a snarling delusional dog
narcissist in a warping mirror
a pathetic complainer
a cyst on the body politic
clot
open sore
seething pustule
piggish **** lover
gangsters dupe
fascist wana be
heil heil
god your a pile
making Russia great again
licking Vlad's *****
protecting your assets no doubt
and hissing tweets
at war with with only everything
and figments of a disturbed imagination
a real windmill killer
his mouth
the devils mark
a yapping compulsive lier
forked tongued fury
possessed to a fault
by the vainglories
of money and ego out of bounds
the biggest and the best
at being
the very worst and a pest
grand royalty of ridicule
*****
a ham ****** cartoon nightmare
and clumsy stumbling bore
a seething volcano of perpetual excrement
reading from the book of chaos
aberrations of enemies
a war room president
at war with his own citizens
huddled in a panic chamber
burns and cuts himself
with his own hot sharp words
as there thrown back at him
a bully getting bullied
a ripper getting ripped
the brains of a lizards eyelid
in a shadeless socket
pulp hearted orangutan
menace to society
his mottled soul
like a black sun
on the verge
of a black hole
a hell mill of decrepitude
a dark creep creeping
tarnishing our beautiful country
lights dim
America
there's a devil
in the white house
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
I look at my hands as they shiver
All the cuts, scratches and scars
The dark freckle and small wound that make it seem as though I have stigmata
I've been crucified a time or two, but only in my head, no stakes through my hands
Looking at the mirror
Seeing my face
Seeing all the scars
But this time they don't mar my skin
I can see them on my tattered, stained soul
I can see it in my eyes
Other people see my eyes and it evokes a light feeling
All I can see is the dark hidden away
I wish I could see what they see instead
My laptop is open
I see people I like and love and hate posting about their lives
Making themselves seem significant
Despite the fact that they live ignorant lives
Living in the cloud city of dreams
Arguing over whose God is better
Arguing over whose politician will make the world a utopia
I suppose politicians are some people's real Gods
Posting about the latest trends
Trying to garner attention for nothing
As if a thousand "friends" liking a status really means anything at all
Work meeting this Sunday
I know what I'll see
Three idiots
Two bosses
One pseudo sister
One girl who shouldn't work there
One girl who should be mine, and everyone knows it
Two managers that I actually get along with
I'll see little notes scribbled with ******** compliments that everyone writes
"Great work on Sunday!"
"So glad you took care of that thing for me!"
Because apparently a thank you and a paycheck isn't good enough
They need to feed their egos
That's what matters to them
I look at my friends
Or the people who used to be called that
Now I talk to them once every few months
Plan to hang out every now and then
See them once a year
Normally on accident
They're total jerks anyways, so I don't mind
They're a living reminder that I need good people in my life
Good on ya, former friends
In my room I see my dog
The lazy ******* just sleeps on my bed
Halfway under my sheets
He's snoring
He's a good dog
I'll let him be
If only I could be like him
And sleep all day
Or like my former friends
And just not care
Or like that girl at work
And not realize we should be together
Or like the denizens of cloudville
And live an ignorant, happy life
But that would all be too easy
I like that I can see all these things
Things that they can't see
Except my empty bank account
I just won't look at that
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
Still streets stir
with metallic whir
and pop on black top
with strips of rubber
wiping wet windows
and pine pollen
Oh! how they have fallen
the Cypress Creek
sacrificed for a paved path
that bares its name
without shame
and reminds dazed denizens
of all that it once was
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
There castles fair as a moon of June
Despite denizens 'neath a pit of despair
Like a night lit not by stars or moon.
Sweet is the silent whispers of a zephyr
When falls dew at the peep of dawn
Upon meadow boughs of emerald fair.
When heaven's ever fair golden eye
Doth sprinkle her very last fiery ray
To pave way unto maidens of the sky
That evermore bedeck heaven's bay,
In woods strange lonely things dost cry
In lament of the sweet melted olden day
Now 'neath the vale of time: In fairyland,
Where days once colorful and bright,
Where novelty gems bedeck each strand,
Where lofty towers shine than star light,
There naught remains that doth stand
And there dawns never but endless night.
Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California.
20th/09/2018
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 5:02 AM UTC
In wilted droves they shuffle weary
Denizens of concrete plains
The brutal truth of Darwin’s theory
Striving grim for jealous gains
Hungry wallets snap at pockets
Morning thick with susurration
Eyeballs sunk in heavy sockets
Darting wild in consternation
Fleeting bursts of mock affection
Melt away as summer frost
Vague, the gaze of recollection
Quick to mind, the current cost
Clad in suits of gloomy weather
Human traces still remain
Shackles wrought in gold and leather
Wireless is the ball and chain
Winter stains the sunrise bitter
Drizzle darkened pavements wet
A fearless sun, the rain clouds litter
Lemon yellow suffragette
Incarcerated under skies
A bubble never fit to burst
As from the ape we reckless rise
And by the fallen angel cursed
To toil about the in-between
Loose of foot and fancy free
Creators of the never seen
Joyous bleak humanity
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
Our Father
Woe! to these demonic determined downtrodden deceivers,
Woe! Oh Thine merciless mendicants of misery and maleficent mendacity
Woe! Oh common corrupt conniving cunning calumnious crusaders of crucifixion...
scurrilous screeds scribbling sorrows
The Lord will sharpen thou pencils...
Thou pocket protectors whilst melt into thine *******
Thou spectacles opaque and permanently smudged...with other assorted
myriad miseries
Thou mittens will be smitten with interminable degeneracy...
Oh languid leaders of licentious lubricious larceny..
Oh craving calculating copious concupiscent calumnious falsifiers...
Oh maudlin mocking manipulators, multitudinous marauding machinations
**Thy God is an angry God
a vengeful God
a jealous God**
Oh **** pots and gall! Oh sordid ****** insalubrious denizens of depraved degeneracy
Take heed thou names mightn't appear in the almighty book of life when judgement deigns an
opprobrious order of objurgation
terrible tragic tempestous tribulations of treachery
Oh Woe! Alas!
They are fallacious febrile fabricators, fallen , fragmented flawed fugacious furtive falsifiers!!
scalawags and rapscallions..rascals of ribaldry..forlorn fallen away backslidden recalcitrants…
Oh misguided miserable miscreants, maladies and agitation be thy lot!
This rant has been brought to you by:
The Most High and Holy Priest of the Ignoble Church of Alliteration & Utter Skepticisim
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /
Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /
Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /
(—Se' lah)
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 12:00 AM UTC
Every single day is partitioned fairly, I'd think
amongst us denizens of this uncertain universe,
that makes no loss ever in its unceasing transactions,
as every end is a new begining and also the reverse.
I wonder again on the complex algorithm at play
and demands upon each moment to accomplish it!
With a laugh I just let go the thread of that *****
thought on processors and servors for a humanguous
operation needed for that to go on for ever and aye!
What nonsense! the human logic is hugely flawed
Cosmos has better manuels of operation never
needed to be written down, just like the affairs of heart
of men and woemen that jostle in this planet ,driven
by urges prompted by mind, body and if you'd believe
without any qualms,the spirit, but I wouldn't insist.
Dusk was falling, and I sat smugly on the sugary sands
of the bikiny beach, with a vengence on my face
(but not with the bitterness of one, just now short changed)
And with an adamence to get my fair share of that day's
catch, plucked fruits, harvest,hunted gold or whatever!
I didn't want anyone notice as my exchange was
happening in in silence, on cycles higher without any means
tangible, of communication of any meterial sort.
Then there was a on sand behind me, I felt warmth,
the dog was snuggling closer and closer to me to comfort!
Her liquid eyes said, all that I wanted to hear
She was my solace for the day's battle wound, I reckoned
exuding warmth, she drained my pain like the bad blood
darkly stuck,let out through the cut I just had survived.....
Night was long and the moon anointed us with her balm
on the sand bed a man and a stray dog slept unstirred.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 6:09 AM UTC
A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets,
casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below.
Beneath the cascading denizens of light,
a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky,
a patient without his insurance with nothing left but
callous empty third-person reassurance,
"everything will be better" as she said.
But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter.
Save your proverbs for an open ear,
this one is half deaf and full of itself,
despite your intent,
your lack of action perpetuates malcontent.
After all we're all just passing moments
gone and forgotten, evicted,
convicted of being a gutless mime,
going through the motions,
minus a true notion.
A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak
spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities
subtracting numerals adding funerals
dividing families multiplying tragedies
It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate
we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life.
Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry,
pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince.
And I'm stuck spinning in the corner,
with my hands on my head.
Senselessly blurting out: Why?!
But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul
trapped with my head in the sky.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
Who put the “sub” into “subversion” and “subculture”?
Was it the same people
Who built schools:
Those prisons
Where kids are tortured
And brainwashed
Into being “good” conforming citizens –
Factory fodder
Trained to sit in lines
Labouring at meaningless tasks,
Questioning nothing?
So still we are ruled
By Tory Grandees and Brussels Bureaucrats
Keeping us in our place:
Social Control
Over Job Centre slaves.
It’s the same the whole world over:
The rich wallowing in luxury
While the poor starve to death
Exposed to pitiless winds.
For once words fail me
About our Unfair World.
Children dying everywhere
While fatcats feed in a frenzy.
No wonder people talk of Revolution
And terrorist plots.
Our air is full of carbon
While trees are cut
Down
For seas of palm oil.
We need to reconsider
What we do
In all our ways.
Enough is enough.
It’s time to nurture nature
As denizens of Planet Earth.
Paul Butters
© PB 23\11\2018.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC