"disparities" poems
complexity bias
how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex
poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews
Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%
perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -
give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences
I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces, you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied
25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born
there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future
this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden
my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder
my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under
so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority
you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions
resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length
compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
Routine tests
failed
Number Four reactor
Walls melt, floor buckles
Gamma disaster
one half million men mill
by the banks of the Dnieper
Level Seven Event
Unprecedented disaster
Flesh sloughed off
Rounding the corner
cellular structure instantly scrambled
eggs toast and jelly
Gaze upon the elephant's foot
Bathe in green glowing brilliant stochastic calculation
Mutant dogs roam the tainted halls of Prypiat
Disparities reflect
true death toll unknown
Concerned Scientists shed their lights
on the encircling environment
Glittering glass carpets coat abandoned streets
Creaking Ferris wheel slowly turns into madness
Toxic twin of Fukushima
Thyroid Leukemia Cellular Damage Tumor
the caustic clouds still settling today
Generation after generation
dead women and children
Global impact particle spread
none have been spared
even into tomorrow.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
I have a dream! I have a dream,
To the racial discriminators, said Martin Luther King,
I have a dream! I have a dream!
To the evil-creating economists, I warn and ring.
Globe witness hunger, inequality poverty and unemployment
The world turns out to be bitter,
To all of you, I write this letter.
To create a world relieved from these and turn better.
I am a mad aspiring economist, a fool,
Searching for the right tool,
You turned the world with full of mess,
People are left with nothing less.
To the world, you gave theories,
Pushed us into a vicious cycle of injuries,
About your theories, you boasted,
It has created a few ruling and bloated.
Most of you worked as economic hitmen,
Turned victim laymen to fighting gunmen.
To the realities, your theory is distant,
Served no solution to the dying peasants,
To the few, we remain a psychological slave and servants,
Tuned our lives to a depended migrant.
With your development lecture,
You have killed the entire nature,
In the name of ventures, corporates turned vulture,
Hunted and looted our generations’ future.
We lived a self-reliant community,
You killed us with imposed liability,
Our lives are now placed in intensive casualty,
The word that remains imagination still is equality.
We lost our humanity and identity,
In your eyes, we are just a market and commodity,
Your play with scarcity, was a mere futility,
We finally became a society, filled with atrocity.
Your useless lectures of development,
Put us under frightening & irrecoverable unemployment,
For a few, you got us into a deep-rooted enslavement,
So, now for you instead, we make a replacement.
To my questions, you neglected and ran,
In your eyes, I am foolish stupid common man,
To you short-sighted range,
I say I will bring in a change!
Today, I may remain lower and mere viewer,
A day will come, where you will stand to answer,
Writing a new rule, I would seize your beloved positions,
This will be my lifetime mission and ambition.
I say with all my limited experience,
I will put a test to all your conscience,
Are you just a fat-big corporate’s hand?
With people will you always stand?
I am not an economist,
I am neither an egotist,
I proclaim! I proclaim!
I am a revolutionary economist,
I know you will fit me a label,
I am sure I will be an economic rebel,
A rebellious economist.
I dream a world without huge inequalities,
I dream a world free from imposed liabilities,
I dream a world without poverty and disparities,
I finally dream for becoming an economist with no ambiguities.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
If I could simply overcome
Possessive nouns and vowel sounds
I would not need to study ******
Heavy lies’ beheaded crowns
But you make martyrs with your charter
School exclusive service sector
To systemically condemn me
To the destitution nectar
Of the corner story ******
Potential Cinderella caged in
The statistics of the mathematic
Overdose equation
Comatose’n like a Holy Ghost
Of tranquil ranking party skanks
Whose tanks plan out the projects
For the boys still shootin’ blanks
And then the slavers liberate
Some nation-state of god forsaken
Oil barons salivate
To taste the poison Apple’s stake in
Stock in stuffer markets takin’
All the products people makin’
Privatizing profit-docket lawless
Mother Nature rapin’
For some scarcity disparities
In wealth I can’t attain
You keep me feeding on the bottom
From the top, you make it rain
So as the brains continue drainin’
In amenity dependency
I tinker with the inner-machinations
Now the enemy
You’ve made me out to be you see
My generation’s future’s bleaker
Than the past in full HD
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
*"As the same fire assumes different shapes
When it consumes objects differing in shape,
So does the one Self take the shape
Of every creature in whom he is present."*
(Katha Upanishad II.2.9)
*"As the rivers flowing east and west
Merge in the sea and become one with it,
Forgetting they were separate rivers,
So do all creatures lose their separateness
When they merge at last into pure Being.
There is nothing that does not come from him.
Of everything he is the inmost Self.
He is the truth; he is the Self supreme.
You are that Shvetaketu, you are that."*
(Chandogya Upanishad IV.10.1-3)
*I don't understand,
Why, in this land,*
Where these sacred
scriptures were written,
Were so many religions born--
*I don't understand,
How, in this land,*
Were differences encouraged,
When the backbone of all life
Always was recognized as liberation--
The acknowledgement
Of all different religions, castes, creeds,
Really broke the deal you know...
Imagine, if all the cultures were mixed
Instead of being separated, unconnected, segregated;
And churned into a liberal philosophy
The Philosophy of Liberation (read: Moksha)
We'd have prevented so many wars,
All fought under the cloak of differences and disparities;
We could have averted
So much bloodshed,
So many innocent screams--
And these shudders down your spine right now?
They would be the product of fiction;
Not the echoes of cruel reality...
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Muddled endings,
Eliminated by overwhelming intrigue -
Bridge disparities between depression and happiness,
Giving guidance and allowance for virtuous new begninnings.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
wooing/seducing: the where of the first kiss always
~for Robin Carretti, who loved it best~
‘tis true my battlefield tactical brought me
many victories
when that was fool-desired
no chain mail, walled armaments, arms crossing,
all failed
to the single softest siege engine in my possession
and the passing passionately poems read
back ‘n forth, non-negotiable demands,
vicious but viscous
red lines,
day remainders of the contusions of night's angry passions
and the
disputed but muted disparities of both
nothing, no, never broke the spell of:
the first kiss, always upon the neck
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
while you were sleeping,
stars stepped out to dance,
trees whistled a tune with the wind,
river shimmered a firefly glow,
sheet of grass blades spread cool,
street mongrels howled a love ballad,
cat clawed a tune on the guitar,
the late Ravi Shankar plucked
divine on his ghostly sitar...
while you were sleeping,
world made a blanket of clouds,
crown of a dozen sunflowers
ii
while you were sleeping
I delved out of this dream
and finally opened my eyes,
saw illusions on angel wings,
mermaids celestially sing of
beauty's imprisoning knots,
dazed world of impossibilities,
eternal bewitchment, disparities,
all afire in new unbiased light,
it is the puzzle that binds you,
not its swab drab culmination,
a loop threading in forever land,
iii
while you were sleeping
I fled the valley, the valley
of hatred, fear, the blind,
while you were sleeping
while you were sleeping
while you were sleeping
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC
The line of freedom was drawn,
fortunate passports found
amongst the rubble of Ground Zero.
The future was not a boot,
more, groping hands through
intimate pockets
and blue light that decimates
the privacy of dreams.
No concentration camps,
Bernays fuelled the fire
in a wolf's disguise
until the crowd would herd itself.
No Aryan prophecy-
hatred more efficient
when its hands are untied.
Small disparities linger
the stem of deception:
the bottom-feeders are sterilised,
benefits withdrawn, foundations exposed
as ******* palms gather the loot
they lifted through the ceiling.
Sensory comfort provides
the leisure of a clouded mind,
a blood sugar spike,
the Soma of our time.
Under halogen lights
they make love in the high-rise
then labour in sleep
for what love cannot afford.
Continents divide.
Africa: the cold shoulder.
Asia: the factory line.
Oceans swell in neoprene heat
as sling-shots are drawn
beneath a dying star.
Old skull of Palestine,
cross-hairs on the White House
and a contusion in Pakistan.
Doors of perception only open to addiction.
Separate from G-d ,
draw more blood from the ground
like a smoker in the inexhaustible
process of quitting.
A belief in infinity
that will last until the world's end.
The line of freedom was drawn.
Everyone believed that they were on the right side.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Listen-look at me
i was born free,
life entrails on my will,
finding a path for my laughter
underneath the motif of all circumstance,
but if i should fall
the world should bestow on me
the benevolence of every tears
listen-look at me
i lived free,
enduring all frail conception
like the prophet at the beach
while ringing false immunity
to the dust of my aching feet,
and if i should fall
then may my creed abide with me
listen-look at me
i die free
sprawling at the labyrinth of time,
my life,renewed on virtures breath,
and chosen among the disparities of man,
my wraith was seen smiling at the sun,
then if i should fall
the dust of the earth should not wait.
All right reserved
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 12:20 PM UTC
If a poem or essay can end with a conclusion or its opposite, either one,
Can it be of any use to anyone?
Do the discrepancies and disparities, dualities and densities, reflect only
the dementia
Of the bearer of the pencil?
First entertain, then enlighten if you can. One stretches truth in order
to pretend,
Another leavens with levity one's inevitable end.
Most days it's not possible to bring your life into an expressible state.
Disparate hopes, arduous chores, word choices. And, of course, the
state of the state.
Driven by ideas rather than rhymes, for it is not metres, but a
metre-making argument,
That makes a poem. Convenience store or university English
department
The day's disputes, down to the meaning of the weather, leave you
indisposed
To share your heart of zero and your inner rose.
It is the strong force, the energy of the loved ones combined with
cooperation for good or war.
Dad's years in New Guinea fighting **** he said, were his best by far.
The best that can be said or done is Be where you are. Love the one
you're with
Not necessarily an adult of the opposite *** perhaps just a kid who
hates math
And school, dresses goth, reads rarely but learns a lot from movies
and YouTube,
Has the presence of mind to say I am who I am, deal with it. That's
who I want to be
And have always been. Today clean the house, again. Woke up this
morning to two thoughts:
How sweet to be alive! Life is tough.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
Stand up
Stand up
Stand up proud on the soapbox
U got something to say?
Say it
Say it
Say it proud on the soapbox
U ready now?
Get up
Get up
Get up on that soapbox
(Speaker crackles)
Hi.
Crowd: hi!
My name is Prince L and I'm here to offend you.
Crowd: gasp!!!(Murmurs)
so settle down. it seems I can't reach your standards of presentation. is my hair to ***** are my clothes to cheap, hell anyone can see, I wear my **** proudly,
Crowd: gasp harder!!! He did not!
I did, oh **** I forgot I'm not supposed to cuss, o well too late, watch it unfold, my fate. this is my first time on the soapbox, let's talk about that, the box, is it needed? People use it as a trough to feed these stagnant ideas of life and how to live it. Why does everyone need to be categorized and seeded?
Crowd: hmmmmm....
The disparities between race in class are magnified cause we are gentrified, so we all feel polar to the other, opposite the fact we are born from another, check me I have love for you because you are you no matter your crew. O you have a conflict of view, don't matter unless u mad hatter tryin to riddle your way through the middle, cause in reality most of us are in this middle group, are you following? You're a regular sleuth.
Crowd: huh? We want truth.
Try this on for size. I think you might find, the separation between elite and u is a lot, spot the differences? if you were part of the one you wouldn't be arguin with everyone. They got lawyers for that, they mouths stay strapped ready to ****** from you, so don't worry boo keep jaw jackin while the keep straight jackin, stealin, thievin, everything you see, reapin, the earth of its resources slowly turning it to hell. Its not a perception its a perpetual. why you think they always gathering, resources, yea they planning it, to own the world, don't be a fool.
Crowd: no way!!
I'm tellin you pray. Appreciate the ppl who stand upon the soapbox, why? Cause they be fightin for every ones freedom. No matter the cause, no matter the fight,
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
Love is not the scrawl of notes
left on the bedside, whilst
the alarm clock suffers to clouts
and rings, awakening her.
Neither is love the aperture
between silhouettes
as they embrace so readily
against the walls. Some clinch
of absence, the antiptosis
of the you and I.
Love is not the spaces between
the ‘I miss you’s’ and the
‘here we are once more’s.’
Neither is love the separation
between our wants and needs,
to the disparities in the world.
It is not the defiance of obligation,
nor some holy rest-house
to the ills of the modern world.
Love is not some shared novel,
a story born out over a communal
conjecture of where humanity shall
rest upon the end of everything.
Neither is love the offering of a rose,
or any other bouquet of severed
life, strangled for the nourishment
of her; the justification of your
placement in her life. These are just
condescending gestures,
weak offerings to the Lord
of all you claim to be divine.
Love is not a life to be feasted upon,
nor is it the self-satisfied glance
in the mirror, as you finally decide
on your definition of ‘I’.
Neither is love this malformation
of words, this attempt of veritas,
this hollowed pursuit of whiskey-fuelled
longing, longing, longing for
some great hand to deliver life
upon my doorstep, upon our’s.
Love is simply the eternal rite
of Gaia; the motes of existence
that tumble with great devotion
and all-cause to their eventual demise,
their inevitable return
to the spiral that created them.
Love is the spaces between my breath,
between your’s.
Those pockets of meditation,
and the realisation of union
between all that was,
and ever will be.
Love is the acknowledgement
of power between us. Our previous
lives, blades of grass wilting together
under the footfalls of the now-trees,
the now-governors of our lives.
Love is in the ‘I know you’s’
and the ‘what would I do
without you’s’ that we have so struggled
to forsake in the day-to-day
tumble of our lives.
And to this, I say, that love is
these spaces that you may
no longer occupy. The barren stretches
of grey matter that no being either
mortal or otherwise,
could ever reclaim.
Love is the birth of bespoke experience,
and the knowledge
that nothing can erase us
from the archives of
everything that should ever matter.
Love is us.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Listen-look at me
i was born free,
life entrails on my will,
finding a path for my laughter
underneath the motif of all circumstance,
but if i should fall
the world should bestow on me
the benevolence of every tears
listen-look at me
i lived free,
enduring all frail conception
like the prophet at the beach
while ringing false immunity
to the dust of my aching feet,
and if i should fall
then may my creed abide with me
listen-look at me
i die free
sprawling at the labyrinth of time,
my life,renewed on virtures breath,
and chosen among the disparities of man,
my wraith was seen smiling at the sun,
then if i should fall
the dust of the earth should not wait.
All right reserved
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
I am a lover of all things dark and brooding
the somber ambiance, for me, is quite soothing
don't get me wrong, it's not all black and white;
my opinions and clothes alike.
I've actually come to like mustard yellow
And would totally rock a look that's pastel and mellow.
But this section of the spectrum
That will never have my affection
Is the color orange;
I cant even rhyme it with anything.
Red and yellow looked daunting at first;
Each color, the embodiment of an ouburst.
Wearing these colors that are so luminscent
To appear as though my soul is effervescent,
To appear as though i am an image of thrill;
Faking it 'til I make it, if you will.
Contrastingly, its combination's thrill and effervescence
Is rather shrill and of terrible essence
There's not much that I can compare it to
Other than your tangerine-scented shampoo
And falling leaves in autumn:
Like how I fall when you hum.
Seemingly soft sincerities
Have become dazing disparities.
What was once easy on my eyes
Now is a hue that I despise.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 3:54 AM UTC
She was a woman ,not great as he
but there hid a caliber which she couldn't see.
An unknown talent that lay hidden ,
which she has stuffed and pushed within .
A coy face,
and a masquerade.
Slender shape
and a pretty face.
He , a bloke of high reverence,
his eyes so glittering and dense .
Has become a man of fame and pride ,
from a mere boy who struggled for life.
Modern charm,
generous and calm.
beguiling smile
and a high profile.
Both pose some similarities,
maybe their talent or their great disparities.
both ignored for being different
and, maybe that's what made them both friends.
They've been together for years now,
both clung onto true love.
Both have laid all the plans for tomorrow,
Every joy and every sorrow.
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 11:19 AM UTC
*To you…
In the dark dreams that have become my life
you are sunshine and starlight.
For the unreasonable, the unfathomable, the disparities
surmounting daily, you are sanity and reason.
For my silence, you are song.
In my lack of expression, you are music.
My words fade, my world diminishes
and focus affords me only darkness.
You are there, ever aware.
When my world ties me tightly into knots
you see how to loosen them, and weave me fabric.
My heart beats to stale metaphor and abused imagery,
though your words softly sigh, touched with fresh breezes.
I have seen sandy shores, and known the scent of fresh loam,
bursting with the seeds of spring; gentle rains, and the flight of seabirds,
through your eyes - there, within your words.
And when my world falls apart and crumbles beneath my feet
I am caught upon your open palm, within your caring touch.
I am relieved, refreshed, and comfortably happy
in the darkest of times, for you, whose care lifts me up.
There will never be a way to thank you, as I would want.
It is there, in my heart, in the blood that courses through me
All that I am, is all I can give, and I will ever give it willingly
to you.
©Lin Cava
15th March, 2013*
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
MLK described his hope to live in a colour blind world,
What he meant, was to acknowledge race and colour first, and be concerned,
Concerned what privilege we were born into, and what was not earned
Not disregard the differences or how inequalities are preserved.
you’re supposed to see colour first and understand the struggles people face,
face for having different skin colour or being a minority race.
Call out racist jokes when you hear them with your friends and family
Because these micro aggressions need to be addressed for their brutality
Brutality with its unimaginable gravity and tragedy
On people who have worked so hard to fight grim actuality.
When tragedies occur
do your research and infer,
with plenty of resources online to educate ourselves
on the history and the issues that present themselves.
As communities, we should take a moment to think
Think of the frustration, limitation and the unimaginable disintegration
of wealth disparities, justice bias, education and housing discrimination
That the colour of our skin gave us different experiences and oppressions
So no, we aren’t ready to call ourselves colour blind because we just cannot be.
The colour of our skin was an agency of prejudice, power, and prosperity.
At a time like this, when its hardest to fight, fight for what’s fair and right and ask as many questions as you’d like
Or racism will continue to blight humanity at its sight.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 9:10 AM UTC
The words are gone, the parties cracked glowsticks spilling their blood on the sidewalk.
The minutes that felt all mine, personal, a glove around space-time that I dictated -
now they’re standardized to measure the effects of real disparities in theoretical constructs.
But my fingers twitch, my teeth find skin, the coffee keeps coming but the world doesn’t slow.
And someday I’ll LOSE IT and bike naked through my new streets and claim it all back, the dark spangled world I used to inhabit, that evaporated in the false lights of the city.
Give me back the yellowed bricks and the pensive dizzy walks home. Running through the forest with the vultures up ahead and the cracked pavement underfoot, woods rising like spectres, autumn crackling on all sides, loneliness lifting up my steps and fog curling around my neck. The songs all say the cities are exciting but the outskirts are alive, the outer places plead, they love you with a desperation those glutted urbanities won’t understand.
They’ll call us home someday. That dark earth, the gnarled tree. Empty fields and brick-husk-buildings will welcome us with fireflies and curving mist and the quiet dramatics lost to the souls beating their spreadsheet hearts, with space budgeted x for family and y for ******* and the bullet-to-the-heart z (complacence). They’ll call us home, remind us the world is made of ghosts, the bones of trees, the bodies of clay, and the dust of flowers. That bluebird chirping is the only true sound you’ll ever hear. The pine needles and the wind are saying something important, and I live in a world of windowpanes! The fog is lifting, the sun is rising, and all the ghosts are going home. The waterfalls keep falling, but they fade from memory. The rocks jut towards the heavens, just as always, but my appreciation fades. Now I’m left -
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
A poet's disposition is happy,
No time for those moods so ******
Sighting the good each tedious day,
Even as others for peace earnestly pray.
Joining hands with torch bearers,
Guidance of the steps of pallbearers.
Watering thoughts of verse weavers,
They are messengers of burden relievers.
Abhor bloodshed but love the ink,
To foster the ground with green and pink,
Full of wisdom and free from double think,
To promote the love, peace and soulful drink
"Live and let live" a poetic theme,
In and around each color scheme,
To eradicate the disparities in eye beam,
Conquer all strife with Love's cream.
©Perveiz Ali
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
If I close my eyes I smell the butter of fresh popcorn and hear the whirring of a laptop powerful and bright. Can taste the dichotomy of the crisp melting of the popped kernel in my mouth, feel the happiness of being in a desk chair in front of a screen and surrounded by books.
Then I open my eyes and see I have to edit everything I've written to be even vaguely coherent.
Happiness is hard when you're never satisfied. When the childhood curiosity stapled to your youthful lips never unpinned as you aged. Neither did the idealistic expectations. Couple that with a pessimistic anxiety disorder and a mood disorder to swing things between the two disparities and it gets a little more complicated.
I've been my most relieved and anxious in this place of empty, of nowhere, that I've settled myself into for the next three weeks. A piece of me enjoys the rest and possibilities. The other hates it for those exact reasons.
I need to breathe, I tell myself. Being so separate is my fault, I insist.
But another voice in my head pipes up quietly, offering a new idea. I'm demonizing myself for not being ideas, for not being normal, for not being one.
But perhaps be bipolar, in more ways than just disorder, is exactly what concocts the human I like being.
Perhaps the great empathetic thoughtfulness yet great introspection work so well in tandem.
Maybe the assertive extroversion yet pleasured isolation balance in their own, special way.
In a way, I might just need to look back on the old Sunday afternoon specials and speak to myself the lessons of their half-hour programs. In particular, admit maybe its ok if I'm weird. perhaps its ok I just be the own odd balance that is me.
The Nowhere, the empty, can be itchy with the possibilities sometimes. Yet these moments, that help me breathe through my own neurotics and idiosyncrasies, may just be the best kind of nothing.
Maybe the bothersome nowhere can also be something grand and great for me as well.
There perhaps is another side of nowhere, and perhaps it is my favorite.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
*thoughts when walking down the perfect christmas lane of upper-middle class houses with victorian street-lights, and a muzak of in the imaginary elevator: we don't need no water, let the ************ burn, burn ************ burn.*
to associate old age with wisdom, instead of a coward's:
you wouldn't hit a man wearing glasses in the face,
would you? (no, but i'd make a pizza of it down papa hannibal's).
although it makes me allow the debates
of platonic perceptions and disparities,
for then youth is slaughtered
upon the altar of rising house prices,
rich old men stealing possible mates,
youth becomes easily disposed of
ready for warring in a square of
the battlefield without any corners...
old age has nothing to do with wisdom,
it simply appears like it's wise,
but it allows its own mistakes to
be replicated... if wisdom doesn't arise
from youth, then youth is simply
that segment of society that can be easily
duped... the middle always wins...
they provide the friction fiction of movies...
e.g. a well established journalist
with a secure job, a home, a family
becomes undermined, loses something...
then the fiction begins... oh the tragedy...
kids' yachting lessons will disappear...
touch the soft spot, i'm about to turn into
a mollusk and burp NaClCO2... salty breath...
me? all i have to lose is a certain number of books
and a few compact disks of the trendy 80s consumerism;
ye ha! and jimmy savile ended up old and wise
with a grave that was consecrated with theft for recycled marble!
**** out! someone is about to seal-clap
the righteous ******* when embracing mickey mouse
for the tourists' picture of a family holiday,
and then it's all **** a doris for the turkey fat dribbles
to keep the sabbath tradition of the 100m sprint
on escalators.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
We live in a place with high taxes but low wages. Where people live in savaged places with no hope for the future and the look of despair on their faces
We live in a place with overpaid attorneys and under paid teachers. Yet teachers are responsible for the education of the youth that will one day run our nation
We live in a place:
With over capacitated jails, with vacancy open for kids who fail and have been failed by parents who didn’t reach them in time. As a result they’ve chosen a life of crime
We’re known as the land of the free, home of the brave, the place to be. However, we fail to mention the disparities that greet us at the door on a daily basis. Disguised as the sun, moon or fresh air. So we head out there thinking we can see the world crystal clear. This is a sign and we shouldn’t ignore it, because we can’t afford it. We’re losing souls at a rapid pace. Once they’re gone they can’t be replaced
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:41 AM UTC
My soul use to be open
But now is closed.
Like some detour, on a dirt road
You'll never know
Where these thoughts, could go.
Once open, like an all night diner
Was where you could find my mind
But now, the light is out
And closed, is the sign.
Once this soul had glistened
With trust
Shimmered all it's thoughts
Like gold
Now it is shriveled and dry
Not worth a cent
With thoughts too old.
A day late, a dollar short
Once people were proud of me
Now they just set me on fire
To light their stogie.
This old soul, use to be good
Like this old bottle of gin
Now they're both empty and useless
You got what you wanted
Now go buy some fascist label to replace us
We know our place,
Upon the dusty shelve
Next to the roses, you bought last year
Wilted, dry and deteriorating
From lack of interest.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC