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Tanay Sengupta Sep 2018
Welcome to the dystopian town.
No sign of life anymore
The houses are red and the air is brown.

No monarch to rule with a crown.
You will find bodies lying near every door
Welcome to the dystopian town.

You are allowed to frown.
But there is no one alive to blame anymore
The houses are red and the air is brown.

You can try making your way to downtown.
But, there is nothing left worth going there for
Welcome to the dystopian town.

You will see more bodies with their faces down.
While inside you will feel broken, numb and sore
The houses are red and the air is brown.

The sky is dark grey and brown.
Hope is not an option anymore
Welcome to the dystopian town.
The houses are red and the air is brown.










Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
What do you think this poem is about? I leave this one to you. Happy reading!
Tanya Ward Nov 2012
We are the people that you created.
A generation going nowhere.
We are the kids that you hate.
Brought up by fear and paranoia.
The technology era,
distinguished by guns and violence.
Raised and spoiled;
aggression and hate the new emotions.
Alienated from each other.
Passion and empathy completely diminished.
A dystopian world,
ruled by liars and thieves.
Pain is coupled with pleasure.
Angst and depression consuming the minds.
Break away from the hate.
Become a better generation.
We are not the nowhere kids.
Ember Evanescent Oct 2014
So I'm writing a fiction novel

Cool, what's It about?

Well, it's set in a dystopian society.

So not very cheerful. Tell me about the society.

There are multiple different governments that disagree with each other, millions die everyday, people are tortured, some people are even killing themselves because of diseases of the mind, sometimes people hurt each other bad enough emotionally they traumatize them. People still judge each other based on things they can't change and your beliefs can get you killed. People shoot other people for no reason and there are always nuclear weapons pointed at each other. Crazy people and worse, some sane people ****** people remorselessly and so many people hate each other.

Sounds awful, what's it called?

Reality.
I know it's not really a poem but I'm upset right now.
wearegerms Jan 2013
In the place where the moon meets broken shadows, it begins with the swelling of my eyes  

Tears roll across the scars, that no one else can see

A phantom’s curse

Only this place can release my from this dystopian enchantment

The sweet smell alone entangles me with feelings of safety and wonder

For a reality flooded with forest flowers and a throbbing wind

It teases my subconsciousness, it trickles down to my soul

Like a an agonizing murmur

The hypnotic web forms

In this quiet place clouds hurry across confusing shadows

Shivering in the delicious sunlight

My immaculate hour of rediscovery begins…
by
Alexander K Opicho

(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

When I grow up I will seek permission
From my parents, my mother before my father
To travel to Russia the European land of dystopia
that has never known democracy in any tincture
I will beckon the tsar of Russia to open for me
Their classical cipher that Bogy visoky tsa dalyko
I will ask the daughters of Russia to oblivionize my dark skin
***** skin and make love to me the real pre-democratic love
Love that calls for ambers that will claw the fire of revolution,
I will ask my love from the land of Siberia to show me cradle of Rand
The European manger on which Ayn Rand was born during the Leninist census
I will exhume her umbilical cord plus the placenta to link me up
To her dystopian mind that germinated the vice
For shrugging the atlas for we the living ones,
In a full dint of my ***** libido I will ask her
With my African temerarious manner I will bother her
To show me the bronze statues of Alexander Pushkin
I hear it is at ******* of the city of Moscow; Petersburg
I will talk to my brother Pushkin, my fellow African born in Ethiopia
In the family of Godunov only taken to Europe in a slave raid
Ask the Frenchman Henri Troyat who stood with his ***** erected
As he watched an Ethiopian father fertilizing an Ethiopian mother
And child who was born was Dystopian Alexander Pushkin,
I will carry his remains; the bones, the skull and the skeleton in oily
Sisal threads made bag on my broad African shoulders back to Africa
I will re-bury him in the city of Omurate in southern Ethiopia at the buttocks
Of the fish venting beautiful summer waters of Lake Turkana,
I will ask Alexander Pushkin when in a sag on my back to sing for me
His famous poems in praise of thighs of women;

(I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.

I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man.
I loved you because of your smooth thighs
They put my heart on fire like amber in gasoline)

I will leave the bronze statue of Alexander Pushkin in Moscow
For Lenin to look at, he will assign Mayakovski to guard it
Day and night as he sings for it the cacotopian
Poems of a slap in the face of public taste;

(I know the power of words, I know words' tocsin.
They're not the kind applauded by the boxes.
From words like these coffins burst from the earth
and on their own four oaken legs stride forth.
It happens they reject you, unpublished, unprinted.
But saddle-girths tightening words gallop ahead.
See how the centuries ring and trains crawl
to lick poetry's calloused hands.
I know the power of words. Seeming trifles that fall
like petals beneath the heel-taps of dance.
But man with his soul, his lips, his bones.)

I will come along to African city of Omurate
With the pedagogue of the thespic poet
The teacher of the poets, the teacher who taught
Alexander Sergeyvich Pushkin; I know his name
The name is Nikolai Vasileyvitch Gogol
I will caution him to carry only two books
From which he will teach the re-Africanized Pushkin
The first book is the Cloak and second book will be
The voluminous dead souls that have two sharp children of Russian dystopia;
The cactopia of Nosdrezv in his sadistic cult of betrayal
And utopia of Chichikov in his paranoid ownership of dead souls
Of the Russian peasants, muzhiks and serfs,
I will caution him not to carry the government inspector incognito
We don’t want the inspector general in the African city of Omurate
He will leave it behind for Lenin to read because he needs to know
What is to be done.
I don’t like the extreme badness of owning the dead souls
Let me run away to the city of Paris, where romance and poetry
Are utopian commanders of the dystopian orchestra
In which Victor Marie Hugo is haunted by
The ghost of Jean Val Jean; Le Miserable,
I will implore Hugo to take me to the Corsican Island
And chant for me one **** song of the French revolution;


       (  take heed of this small child of earth;
He is great; he hath in him God most high.
Children before their fleshly birth
Are lights alive in the blue sky.
  
In our light bitter world of wrong
They come; God gives us them awhile.
His speech is in their stammering tongue,
And his forgiveness in their smile.
  
Their sweet light rests upon our eyes.
Alas! their right to joy is plain.
If they are hungry Paradise
Weeps, and, if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.
  
The want that saps their sinless flower
Speaks judgment on sin's ministers.
Man holds an angel in his power.
Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs,
  
When God seeks out these tender things
Whom in the shadow where we sleep
He sends us clothed about with wings,
And finds them ragged babes that we)

 From the Corsican I won’t go back to Paris
Because Napoleon Bonaparte and the proletariat
Has already taken over the municipal of Paris
I will dodge this city and maneuver my ways
Through Alsace and Lorraine
The Miginko islands of Europe
And cross the boundaries in to bundeslander
Into Germany, I will go to Berlin and beg the Gestapo
The State police not to shoot me as I climb the Berlin wall
I will balance dramatically on the top of Berlin wall
Like Eshu the Nigerian god of fate
With East Germany on my right; Die ossie
And West Germany on my left; Die wessie
Then like Jesus balancing and walking
On the waters of Lake Galilee
I will balance on Berlin wall
And call one of my faithful followers from Germany
The strong hearted Friedrich von Schiller
To climb the Berlin wall with me
So that we can sing his dystopic Cassandra as a duet
We shall sing and balance on the wall of Berlin
Schiller’s beauteous song of Cassandra;

(Mirth the halls of Troy was filling,
Ere its lofty ramparts fell;
From the golden lute so thrilling
Hymns of joy were heard to swell.
From the sad and tearful slaughter
All had laid their arms aside,
For Pelides Priam's daughter
Claimed then as his own fair bride.

Laurel branches with them bearing,
Troop on troop in bright array
To the temples were repairing,
Owning Thymbrius' sovereign sway.
Through the streets, with frantic measure,
Danced the bacchanal mad round,
And, amid the radiant pleasure,
Only one sad breast was found.

Joyless in the midst of gladness,
None to heed her, none to love,
Roamed Cassandra, plunged in sadness,
To Apollo's laurel grove.
To its dark and deep recesses
Swift the sorrowing priestess hied,
And from off her flowing tresses
Tore the sacred band, and cried:

"All around with joy is beaming,
Ev'ry heart is happy now,
And my sire is fondly dreaming,
Wreathed with flowers my sister's brow
I alone am doomed to wailing,
That sweet vision flies from me;
In my mind, these walls assailing,
Fierce destruction I can see."

"Though a torch I see all-glowing,
Yet 'tis not in *****'s hand;
Smoke across the skies is blowing,
Yet 'tis from no votive brand.
Yonder see I feasts entrancing,
But in my prophetic soul,
Hear I now the God advancing,
Who will steep in tears the bowl!"

"And they blame my lamentation,
And they laugh my grief to scorn;
To the haunts of desolation
I must bear my woes forlorn.
All who happy are, now shun me,
And my tears with laughter see;
Heavy lies thy hand upon me,
Cruel Pythian deity!"

"Thy divine decrees foretelling,
Wherefore hast thou thrown me here,
Where the ever-blind are dwelling,
With a mind, alas, too clear?
Wherefore hast thou power thus given,
What must needs occur to know?
Wrought must be the will of Heaven--
Onward come the hour of woe!"

"When impending fate strikes terror,
Why remove the covering?
Life we have alone in error,
Knowledge with it death must bring.
Take away this prescience tearful,
Take this sight of woe from me;
Of thy truths, alas! how fearful
'Tis the mouthpiece frail to be!"

"Veil my mind once more in slumbers
Let me heedlessly rejoice;
Never have I sung glad numbers
Since I've been thy chosen voice.
Knowledge of the future giving,
Thou hast stolen the present day,
Stolen the moment's joyous living,--
Take thy false gift, then, away!"

"Ne'er with bridal train around me,
Have I wreathed my radiant brow,
Since to serve thy fane I bound me--
Bound me with a solemn vow.
Evermore in grief I languish--
All my youth in tears was spent;
And with thoughts of bitter anguish
My too-feeling heart is rent."

"Joyously my friends are playing,
All around are blest and glad,
In the paths of pleasure straying,--
My poor heart alone is sad.
Spring in vain unfolds each treasure,
Filling all the earth with bliss;
Who in life can e'er take pleasure,
When is seen its dark abyss?"

"With her heart in vision burning,
Truly blest is Polyxene,
As a bride to clasp him yearning.
Him, the noblest, best Hellene!
And her breast with rapture swelling,
All its bliss can scarcely know;
E'en the Gods in heavenly dwelling
Envying not, when dreaming so."

"He to whom my heart is plighted
Stood before my ravished eye,
And his look, by passion lighted,
Toward me turned imploringly.
With the loved one, oh, how gladly
Homeward would I take my flight
But a Stygian shadow sadly
Steps between us every night."

"Cruel Proserpine is sending
All her spectres pale to me;
Ever on my steps attending
Those dread shadowy forms I see.
Though I seek, in mirth and laughter
Refuge from that ghastly train,
Still I see them hastening after,--
Ne'er shall I know joy again."

"And I see the death-steel glancing,
And the eye of ****** glare;
On, with hasty strides advancing,
Terror haunts me everywhere.
Vain I seek alleviation;--
Knowing, seeing, suffering all,
I must wait the consummation,
In a foreign land must fall."

While her solemn words are ringing,
Hark! a dull and wailing tone
From the temple's gate upspringing,--
Dead lies Thetis' mighty son!
Eris shakes her snake-locks hated,
Swiftly flies each deity,
And o'er Ilion's walls ill-fated
Thunder-clouds loom heavily!)

When the Gestapoes get impatient
We shall not climb down to walk on earth
Because by this time  of utopia
Thespis and Muse the gods of poetry
Would have given us the wings to fly
To fly high over England, I and schiller
We shall not land any where in London
Nor perch to any of the English tree
Wales, Scotland, Ireland and Thales
We shall not land there in these lands
The waters of river Thames we shall not drink
We shall fly higher over England
The queen of England we shall not commune
For she is my lender; has lend me the language
English language in which I am chanting
My dystopic songs, poor me! What a cacotopia!
If she takes her language away from
I will remain poetically dead
In the Universe of art and culture
I will form a huge palimpsest of African poetry
Friedrich son of schiller please understand me
Let us not land in England lest I loose
My borrowed tools of worker back to the owner,
But instead let us fly higher in to the azure
The zenith of the sky where the eagles never dare
And call the English bard
through  our high shrilled eagle’s contralto
William Shakespeare to come up
In the English sky; to our treat of poetic blitzkrieg
Please dear schiller we shall tell the bard of London
To come up with his three Luftwaffe
These will be; the deer he stole from the rich farmer
Once when he was a lad in the rural house of john the father,
Second in order is the Hamlet the price of Denmark
Thirdly is  his beautiful song of the **** of lucrece,
We shall ask the bard to return back the deer to the owner
Three of ourselves shall enjoy together dystopia in Hamlet
And ask Shakespeare to sing for us his song
In which he saw a man **** Lucrece; the **** of Lucrece;

( From the besieged Ardea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire
  And girdle with embracing flames the waist
  Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply that name of chaste unhapp'ly set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
  Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,
  With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,
Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;
What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
  That kings might be espoused to more fame,
  But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!
And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done
As is the morning's silver-melting dew
Against the golden splendour of the sun!
An expir'd date, cancell'd ere well begun:
  Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,
  Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth then apologies be made,
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
  Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
  From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty
Suggested this proud issue of a king;
For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting
  His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt
  That golden hap which their superiors want)

  
I and Schiller we shall be the audience
When Shakespeare will echo
The enemies of beauty as
It is weakly protected in the arms of Othello.

I and Schiller we don’t know places in Greece
But Shakespeare’s mother comes from Greece
And Shakespeare’s wife comes from Athens
Shakespeare thus knows Greece like Pericles,
We shall not land anywhere on the way
But straight we shall be let
By Shakespeare to Greece
Into the inner chamber of calypso
Lest the Cyclopes eat us whole meal
We want to redeem Homer from the
Love detention camp of calypso
Where he has dallied nine years in the wilderness
Wilderness of love without reaching home
I will ask Homer to introduce me
To Muse, Clio and Thespis
The three spiritualities of poetry
That gave Homer powers to graft the epics
Of Iliad and Odyssey centerpieces of Greece dystopia
I will ask Homer to chant and sing for us the epical
Songs of love, Grecian cradle of utopia
Where Cyclopes thrive on heavyweight cacotopia
Please dear Homer kindly sing for us;
(Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we
feasted our fill on meat and drink, but when the sun went down and
it came on dark, we camped upon the beach. When the child of
morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I bade my men on board and
loose the hawsers. Then they took their places and smote the grey
sea with their oars; so we sailed on with sorrow in our hearts, but
glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades)
                                  
From Greece to Africa the short route  is via India
The sub continent of India where humanity
Flocks like the oceans of women and men
The land in which Romesh Tulsi
Grafted Ramayana and Mahabharata
The handbook of slavery and caste prejudice
The land in which Gujarat Indian tongue
In the cheeks of Rabidranathe Tagore
Was awarded a Poetical honour
By Alfred Nobel minus any Nemesis
From the land of Scandinavia,
I will implore Tagore to sing for me
The poem which made Nobel to give him a prize
I will ask Tagore to sing in English
The cacotopia and utopia that made India
An oversized dystopia that man has ever seen,
Tagore sing please Tagore sing for me your beggarly heat;

(When the heart is hard and parched up,
come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life,
come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,
break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder)



The heart of beggar must be
A hard heart for it to glorify in the art of begging,

I don’t like begging
This is knot my heart suffered
From my childhood experience
I saw my mother
Cali Nov 2012
The urge to create, to write
to paint to compose
is only a disillusioned
form of madness.

But great art can come
of madness, and
sorrow can birth
extraordinary genius,
so embrace your
defects and fault lines,
for normality
is a fate
worse than death.
Modern Serenity Sep 2014
The world is in a dead awkward silence
everyone looked at the aggressive brutality and cruel violence
They wondered to themselves how did they get here
without even realising there were people pulling their strings like a masquerade puppeteer

Can you imagine a world without anything but just broken gravel?
Living in fear of just catching nothing but just the common cold rattle
Growing up to learn the destroyed world and be nothing but just to grow old..
Change the time of you which you live in now
technology just complicates our lives and our true knowledge

Before everything just becomes nothing but bitterness and displease
will it then maybe shock you? And come ten times worst as respiratory disease
Gigi Tiji Oct 2014
Clicketyclick —

sickly screens,
shooting
sixty
picture-frames
per second

Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our
faces

rectangles,
riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts

the resultant
retinal scarring

Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels

triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal
dramas,
emotional
micro-traumas

every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,
patience

Am I a server,
or am I a servant?

Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin

I'm waiting for my fix

Ding-ding
Bloop!
Pinggg
Here comes the dopamine! —

—Clicketyclick
ALEXANDER K OPICHO

(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Poetry is a network of rivers
One river flowing into another
A big river into a small river
A small river into a big one
Some rivers are dead in the catacombs
Others are rapidly flowing down
And up their course making noisy
Roaring waterfalls and poetic whirlpools
Full of the ripple circumlocution as
The whirlwind of gales in the harmattan
And this is the spirit of poetry.

I will sing the songs of Schiller
Hugo, Shakespeare the bard
Alexander Pushkin and Mayakovski,
Homer and Dante the Frenchman son of Maugham
And Dante the Italian father of the divine comedy,
I will sing their songs as they are European rivulets
Of poetry flowing into huge water masses
Of African poemocracy in which
The poetic dystopia is clearly
Couched in the gears of black and white.

I will sing and chant the songs of India
Land of Tagore by shouting his name
Rabitranathe Tagore! Sing for me
The ways of the Indian baby
Your Indian voice is mellifluous like the
Zulu ****** dances Song in full watch
Of King Mswati with dint of libido.

I will sing the songs of revolution
From Bolivia and Chile, neighbours
Of Mexico and Brazil; Brazil in which
Pablo Neruda the dog burrier is a religion
In which was born Paul Freire who forgot
To sing for the world chants and the songs
Of pedagogy of the dystopian poet
Pedagogy of the utopian thespian
Pedagogy of the dystopian bourgeoisie
Pedagogy of the cacotopian capitalist
And pedagogy of the utopian Marxists
Who are mealy mouthied with mutton in  between their ears
Manufacturing and venting dystopian phantasmagoria
I will sing.

Poetry is the river Nile of Africa
Cradling from Uganda at Entebbe
Flowing to Egypt into the Mediterranean Sea
Leaving the statue of Mahatma Gandhi at the cradle
Chanting the pearls of the satyagra
That; in God there is truth and
In truth there is God,
As poetry of Nile flows upwards
Not carrying only poems of love
Or bourgeoisie cosmetic Haikus
Singing carols of summer and Christmas day
But its poetic fluvial is washing away
The heavy social **** of Globalectics
Fearing Pushkin and his love
Shakespeare and his **** of Lucrece
Vladimir Mayakovski and
His slap in the face of public taste,
Schiller and his Cassandra
Master Homer and his Odysseus Iliad
Mocking in an ugly  snook
The Albatross book of the English verse
In tune with Yeats and Rudyard Kipling
Reversing the stanzas to sing of
The world as the Whiteman’s burden.

I will sing everyman and his *****
Every woman and her *******
Every ****** and her flower
I will sing them all and their names
And duties of roles pertinent
In healing the world, abode of mankind
From the impish Mr. Hide of cacotopian streak
To pave way for the saintly Dr. Jekyll
To lull man to sleep in his Cinderella
Of social utopia
As Robert Louis Stevenson
Holds the world a stage
Of dystopia.



Thank you for your audience!
David May 2013
A satellite is watching its ants,
Broadcasting the pixelated sins of your fathers,
Just
     like
         snow
Go on sew,
Sew your seams little one,
All this humanism is bound to bust when you all find yourselves-

Eating cotton

Turn on the television,
I am naked,
I need to hide,
Turn off the lights,
I need darkness,
To abide,
And Babylon is seeping through the screens,
Demean us all,
Demean us all,
As long as I can be seen,
Demean me please,
Ease the curse of this vulnerability,
How do I survive on this tilted planet?
What's the use of living,
If I'm not alive?
Was man meant for this?
All these cages,
My job my house my car my body,
Is anybody conscience of this missing bliss of life?
Who can see,
All
    the
        nakedness
                       like
                        

                            me


The world washes over our bodies
The world washes over our bodies
**The world washes over our bodies
David Jul 2013
A cold room for puddles of blood,
Yes its true,
My conscience is slowly dripping down my fingertips,
Can you see me becoming the monsters that grow teeth over us?
Listen,
Just listen,
Wolf Queen,
You know I can't give my hands to you,
Matchstick man,
How long will I have to burn away my roots?
How long do we have to burn?
The self destructive gene...
Ashes-
I have no hands to catch the ashes
You know I loved the sound of rain more than the sound of my own pulsing blood,

Dreams spill over these days,
I told you,
When I release the spectrum in my chest,
It would absorb the colors of this world,
Hiding from my own face I,
I have become,

Nothing

I sleep with a ghost,
For it cannot be I that has flesh,
A specter for a dying town,
Memories trapped in dusty pictures,
Scattered everywhere here,
I stood still in this place and watched the movements of decay,
Decay into

Nothing

All my colors are bleeding out
All my colors are bleeding out
All my colors are bleeding out
David May 2013
A sea of gasoline's,
Grace of novelties,
Cars and halogen,
Social disease,
Manufactured dreams,
Scream on screens,
They glean from all living things,
Fight,
Take,
Hide,
Such a contumacious existence,
Results in an animistic decline,
All things that once made us strong,
Oblivion has made a meal of them,
I walk around this town,
I see the colors,
I watch the scenes,
Fight,
Take,
Hide,
I live in a world without a heart,
But machines keep it breathing,
And it has many sons,
Crowned with clockworks maturation,
Am I the last one beating?
I don't tick,
Not like them,
I just watch men bite one another necks from the steps of the front door,
They call me the queen of the creaking floorboards,
Fight,
Take,
Hide,
I have matchstick eyes,
I twist fires with my fingertips,
All of these people made of wood,
They are like smoke to me,
I breathe slices into them with teeth that have no number,
I am December,
I fight,
Take,
Hide
Michael Bauer Mar 2015
i lost everything and that’s when the war came
then they reinstated the draft and began mobilizing
with the hope of defeating tyranny once again
and preserving our freedom and securing our resources

a few years before the war i was in a tense mood
privileged to attend university and expand my mind into proto-intellectualism
reading Shakespeare and studying Postcolonial Literature and non-fiction writing
while stacking up a mountain of student loan debt and watching things unravel

i started smoking bales of **** with my medical marijuana prescription
and stuttered through a false start and a series of stalls
watching my life fall apart but enjoying the rollercoaster ride
and falling in love again with the night time like in my teenage years

the television started showing explosion after explosion on city streets
there were also talks about the weather changing wildly and some people were on edge
but then when the war came everything sort of became more focused yet fatalistic

i never thought i’d get drafted but when the Selective Service notice arrived i wasn’t going to fight it
i enlisted in the Navy the following week and once I stepped on that bus everything just sort of became automatic
as i was swallowed into the machine and molded into a soldier

the process of soldierization is a fascinating phenomenon
a desperate or controlling government picks through it’s citizens
finding those most suitable for combating its perceived enemies
and reprograms select individuals to become a part of the killing machine

i don’t know how they picked me
i figured i would’ve been viewed as a loose cannon
and been thrown into a file for the shredder
but despite my liberal dissident undertones i was dropped into the US armed forces

i was stationed on a missile cruiser for the first three years of the war against the Islamic State
i thought it would just be a lot of sitting around in my underwear
launching cruise missiles *****-nilly and having **** ***
but it was so much better than that

i was lucky to not be stationed in the Pacific when things really started heating up
but instead got to sit around in the Mediterranean sun
smoking Turkish cigarettes in the shade of the missile array
stoking the fires and setting the Middle East aflame

on the day Russia launched into the Baltic states i was on leave in Athens
it was still somewhat of a surprise although everyone was anticipating the change
i was summoned back aboard my ship the next day and converged like a phalanx
we waited off the coast of Troy then continued through the Bosporus

we fired a lot more missiles before they finally got a Mig through to sink us
put a nice little dent in the hull and we jumped off into the cool waters of the Black
we didn’t see any of our ships or helicopters after that
but we were near the coast and managed to get to land a few days after the emergency ration ran out


**originally posted on my blog at https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com/ on January 23, 2015
David Jul 2013
Stereotypes manifesting always,
(Always)
Trying to form themselves from something once seen,
But not really believing in oneself,
I see ignorance,
I see arrogance,
I see the lack of hunger,
Observing such savage pride of life,
I run from it all into a previous state,
(Anonymity)
I've reached the heights of total in-completion,
I build walls of isolation upon myself,
I am the collateral default of widespread degradation,
I stand in the gap between teeth and consumption,
I am the breed conceived by prey and predator,
Widespread suspended animation: that is our future,
We've tried to replicate the human makeup with mechanical frames,
And the translation of electronic gates,
Yet this is a folly,
For staring at the mirrors of selected life in an artificial environment,
Numbs our lives with emulation and self delusion,
The days of nobility dismantle into fragments and sink to the bottom of the glass,
Never to be turned over again,
Scattered,
Living among remnants of a life once lived with some sort of intensity,
Now smoldered in a quite ferocity of anger beneath the surface,
(Quiet tremors coming in flames)
Because we don't live our dreams,
We stand in the shadows of ruins,
We are afraid of the future,
We are afraid of the past,
Where does that leave us?
Leave me?
I stand on the edge of The Void
I'm holding myself hostage in the self sabotage entourage of the usual suspects,
Our friends, our families,
Disconnected with all intentions of coming together,
Because they die in front of their screens,
Not really living,
Right?
Light pollution massacre...
We'll fall like stars
David Jul 2013
Stranded in a car,
Parking lot castaway,
Babylonian sunset,
A star sleeping on regret,
The cold street lights now casting spells,
Down upon a pale face with these eyes painted,
With their shadows

The rain soldiers are marching in,
They'll crown me with their arrows,
I am the queen of the orphans,
A city for a throne,
And heartless chest for a scepter,
It is rumored that there was a cool of the day,
But it is not found here,
If birds had songs then,
They choke and spit out cruel laughter now,
Therefore the gulls migrated to die on asphalt,
To collect the filth I leave upon the earth,
I have sticky fingers on me you see,
Attached to soggy gloves

The rats keep eating at my bed,
The rats keep eating at my bed,
The rats keep eating at my bed,

I cannot sleep tonight,
The rats keep eating at my bed,
But feed the rabbits,
Feed the rabbits,
Feed the rabbits,
Feed the rabbits
,
The Commercialized Army is pressing in,
Following the systematic skein of procedure,
Knit the net,
Produce,
Consume,
Expire,
Produce,
Consume,
Expire,
Knit the net,
Catch me,
Catch me,
Catch me,
Knit the net



I shouldn't be here
                  Where can I find it?
I shouldn't be here
                  Where can I find it?
                                   Will I stop myself?
I shouldn't be here
                  Where can I find it?
                                    Will I stop myself?
                                                      *­Time moves too slow

I shouldn't be here,
                  Where can I find it?
                                    Will I stop myself?
                                                      Ti­me moves too slow
I shouldn't be-





                                                       ­                        And The Sun Goes



Down,
In,
My,
Brown,
Eyes,
Twilight fixation,
The orange star sleeps in the smog,
My mind in its fog,

Here comes the pale ghost eye,
Peaking through his veil,
Midnight fixation,
Staring down,
On my brown eye island

Where I washed ashore
Lexander J Apr 2015
I travelled straight west
to the epicentre of the southern wastelands
and 'twas with mind-numbing disbelief that
I found an Oak table propped upon the sands

and it was not alone either
for three beings sat it, seemingly nonplussed -
one was a skinny old man
wearing a linen suit faded and powdered with dust

his collar frayed around the edges
a moth-eaten hat sat upon his head,
he had a daisy poking from his breast pocket
so very much preserved, so very much dead,

to his left sat a one-eyed Hare
the sole eye ecstatic and wiggling -
he swore and blasphemed each time the man spoke
from a mouth toothless and dribbling,

sat to the right of the man
was absolutely (absolutely!) nothing,
however I observed with mild humour
that both man and Hare were convinced it must be something

for the man was profusely adamant
scorning the Something for dissing the Hare's hair,
although the Hare was too busy rolling around its one eye
to even notice the man, or simply give a fu- care

"Hey hey talk to I! Hath thou seen my missing eye?!"
Hare asked from a voice shrieky and shattered
saliva running in rivets
upon the table it slopped and slavered -

then suddenly the man started singing encore
his voice cringe-worthy, out of tune,
sounding like a cat back-broke and on steroids
rocking and waving like a spastic-loon;

"If Father Time has no end,
does he even have a beginning -
oh, if there's pain is there gain,
which one of us is it that's winning?"

alas, that's when my attention was brought to the mounds
of surgical needles cluttered on the ground,
feeling sickly aura lick the back of my throat
I started backing away without a sound

["Hey hey talk to I -"]

["If there's pain is there gain -"]

["Hath thou seen my missing Missing MISSING EYE?!!"]

#FLASH!#

the dystopian landscape around me melted
into a field of bloated poppies -

serene, scarlet and blinding 'neath the sun,
feasting upon our charred bodies.

AJ
This poem is pretty much inspired by Lewis Carrol's Alice In Wonderland (The Madd Hatters Tea Party). I wanted to write nonsensical!
Mercury Chap Apr 2015
The dark (k)night,
Cold and dreary,
The silver spot of light,
Soothing but scary,
Draping the shadows beneath the (k)night'sky
Running away from a reproachful eye,
Wolfs cry and leaves rustle
Sprinting feet quickly hustle,
(K)night's dark but the dawn breaks,
(K)Night sleeps deeper and deeper, it's insatiable,
Mother doesn't but son wakes,
The dystopian slumber doesn't quiver,
He's only one left awake in this rubble
He's only one left alone to flow away in his dreamy river.
My first sonnet.
Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.
godspeed, dystopian mind.
alls well that ends well
in the war against self loathing.
call upon historic impulses
electrical? fanatical. transfixed. fatal.
groping,
whipser,
intention?
weakness.
axiom? blight. corruption. hunger.
intent? destruction. hopeless. death.
solution?
fellowship.
truth.
transparent.
godspeed, dystopian mind
and don't come back.
Ashleigh Kelco Oct 2012
We are the people that you created.
A generation going nowhere.
We are the kids that you hate.
Brought up by fear and paranoia.
The technology era,
distinguished by guns and violence.
Raised and spoiled;
aggression and hate the new emotions.
Alienated from each other.
Passion and empathy completely diminished.
A dystopian world,
ruled by liars and thieves.
Pain is coupled with pleasure.
Angst and depression consuming the minds.
Break away from the hate.
Become a better generation.
We are not the nowhere kids.
We are the people that you created.
A generation going nowhere.
We are the kids that you hated
Brought up by fear sinking lower
The technology era,
distinguished by guns and violence.
Raised and spoiled
telling us silence
Alienated from each other.
Passion and empathy completely diminished.
A dystopian world,or another
word unfinished
ruled by liars and thieves.
the government is like a
tree with falling leaves
Break away from the hate.
Become a better generation.
Before it’s to late
Caleb Hess Aug 2018
We are slaves of our thoughts, as they bifurcate down crossroad after crossroad, as they diverge in all different directions and force us to obey, and if you must defy then prepare for the pain of cracking bones and resting your head on a cinder block to sleep at night as your brain comes up with new, insufferable ways of torture to force you back down onto your knees, making you bow down. Rebel against yourself all you want but there is no escape from the dystopian society in your head. Knowing this will only make your hunger for escape even greater for we want what we can’t have.
A good concept if you ask me. What the poem is about is pretty self explanatory.
Prabhu Iyer Sep 2015
Dear Lord,

I thank you today for this gift of food. This, was another child of yours. Abel Abel Abel. An intelligent bird. A member in its dumb chain of life, family: what is family to that insentient mass? Do they mourn when one of them is gone? Does it affect them, does it bother them, does it pain them,

As it does to us? Yes, we, the great golden yardstick against which to measure out the universe.  Dumb, may be, but dumb life with a heart. Who knows about the soul. Isn't soul that little pin-***** somewhere deep in the heart? Do I have one? Do I care, do I mourn, do I see the pain that I cause to these fellow children of yours:

But if not this, what else - a leaf that covers in fear at being plucked, a root, a bulb that in ways we cannot sense with but an instrument, cries out in pain at being uprooted, skinned and roasted live. Or a fruit, that mothership, host to a million seedling lives, every one of them that could grow out to outlive my life by orders. A stalk, a branch, name it.

Yes, this is food. This is a chain. I eat and am eaten. Terrible, this creation, that has sprung from wellsprings of love. Or is not this world the product of a loving God, but that of the evil non-God? But where your omnipotence that is screaming through the scripture hoarse?

No, I am a sinner. I have sinned, to be born in this wretched world. A dead child was washed ashore, the other day. Until then, I said, to hell with those barbarians crossing rivers and mountains to reach my land. But what of death? I boil and burn a billion little lives in my glass of tea every morning, many times over. Oh plasmodium, that I have to **** to live, oh this life that hangs to me like a necessity!

Good Lord, have you made me in your image? What is, whose reflection in spacetime appears like this visage, flesh on ribage, beating heart, pumping lung, viscera and nerve and vein, bone and nail, wallowing in pleasure and pain? That is an inverse problem that baffles our genius. It is ill-posed for certain, with no means of regularization for sure.

I must live I must live I must live. ****, that organism is small, dumb, unintelligent, insentient, it's pain is of another kind, we can't eat air, and we are atop this chain, cobra's head, that houses all the venom. This is evolution, we are evolving space suits to head to the stars and spread the Gospel to those unknown realms still sunk steeped in barbarism.

Yes, He is great, he can be heard in the voices of lunatics that some times  get recorded and transmitted across the generations. And I follow the masters, they were vile, very vile, they were chosen, yea they were chosen, so vile is virtuous, I be vile, I be virtuous, I am chosen, yea, I am chosen, I head to God, on the backs of a thousand dead souls.

Amen. Peace to all those I consign and all the masters I quote. Holy Cain!
Connor Reid Apr 2014
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Em MacKenzie Jun 2017
They say to keep your eyes open, but your mind closed,
leave your thoughts unspoken
and your body exposed.
We hold such value to anyone who holds a heart,
and when all is said and done we rip ourselves apart.

I've never been one to wake up in the morning,
I love living my life to look at the stars.
You experience complete peace without any kind of warning,
and if you look hard enough you can sometimes see Mars.

If you go back to the year 1944,
sixteen year olds were coming back from war,
and now in today in 2017,
an adolescent is a child and an adult a teen.

We're so far from our natural state,
our entire species is cursed with cancer.
When we were hunter-gatherers we were doing great,
But we thought preserved food was the better answer.

Most live their lives now in a camera,
forever looking for one more person's approval.
Trying to reach a standard of Marilyn or Pamela,
but a step forward would be technological removal.

Let's look back to around 1970,
when people were still struggling with equality,
And most likely by the year 2020,
we'll be oppressed and depressed by the plenty.
Her warm words wash over me like a dope fiend daze... other voices boorishly buzz a cackle cacophony. At best they are the background noise of your existence.

bit players (endless layers) as she comes my way

Your body pixilates in an ******* focus, it bends, projects all else slowly into your frame, the deja vu of ****** tunnel vision. I struggle to speak as I stand before you.

All others condemned, reduced to extras in a celluloid daydream
they are arrayed for your adornment  
set pieces that surround you in the cinema that is your daily divine saunter

body sacramental (those around you incidental) as she walks away

The subtext, the reflex, the ambivalent, ambient lighting
means nothing without you

my arc, my carnal ******,
any other epilogue is dystopian

cdh
Trevor Gates May 2013
I’ve been expecting you.
I’ve waited an eternity.
Please sit
Thank you
I will now tell you things

I will tell you things I will do
Things I will do to you

Are you curious to know what they are?
You should be.

As I am curious to know
What compelled you to come here?
Yes

Everything in your conscious told you to stay away.
Yet, you are here.
Your friends warned you
But, you are here
Your nagging doubts, your conflicting reasoning all point to something else
Alas, you are here

And I can’t seem to understand why.
You know what I am.
I am an unconventional socialite of the most diabolic kind

I feed off the likes of you.
The sweet, tangible nectarine of modern serenity
The soft, lavender of incorruptible virtues
The delicate outer skin of savory delectability

My mouth waters at the very thought of you
I salivate with the very presence of you
I can feel my blood rush
My hands shake with anticipation

Let my touch
Caress you
Warm you
You don’t deny it
Because you long for it
You long for me to trace your lips with my fingertips
To suckle the flesh drops of your ears
To familiarize my hands with your supple body
To show you the darker side of forbidden passion
To welcome you into the bounty of vicious coitus
And depraved, animistic *******
And deep recessive *******
And blood constricted battering
With lines and whips
Chains
Belts
Leather and
Nightmares
And masters
And tormentors
And wicked shadows lurking in the room
Watching us as we display the ungodly exhibition
Of your forbidden desires

For me to savor the swelling peach of your ***** fruit.

This is for you.

Even as you proclaim your goodness to others
You have a side of your personality that demands unsuppressed copulation.

And why do you need this?
Why do you need me?

I can see it in your eyes.

It was because people in another world told you to hide your womanhood
To despise you sexuality
For it will make you weak
And vulnerable

What was your story behind your frailty?

It could have been the close-minded parents of the old age, who never tried to think for themselves; only allowing others with higher knowledge to justify their old-fashioned morals.
Or
The life you saw through popular culture and mind-altering media.  The problem with pop cultivation is that is follows the wave lengths of susceptible hosts: the average, everyday citizens that “trust” the outside word; that “trust” what is said to them through dystopian and totalitarian subtleties.  
You didn’t know better.
But you could tell it wasn’t right
How is it that a young child can truly know what is right and what is wrong
More so than the misconceived adults?
Because simplicity is key to filtering the complex

Now what does this have to deal with you sexuality
Because unless you do what is only natural for you to do, others will tell you what you should do.

Now, you embrace your emerging fruition.
As my tongue slithers around your sensitive ****
My fingers stretch and penetrate your wanting *****
Now
Is your chance
Overpower the host before you
It is a test

Your daunting task ahead is to overthrow the embellishment of your submission

Are you up to it?

We shall see.

The shadows on the walls are the ones that maimed you
Scolded you
Accosted you
Abused you
Terrified you
Rectified you
Molested you
Suffocated you
Punished you
Insulted you
Silenced you
***** you

Why?

Because they are:
Afraid of you
Intimated of you
Worried of you
Scared of you
And
Enticed by you
Infuriated by you
Aroused by you
Alarmed by you
Entranced by you
And pleasured by you

Could you be all and none of what I said?
You tell me
Whisper it in my ear
Now bite it
Use your teeth and swear it
Tear it and devour it
My creature of the night
My child of ritual
My servant to flesh
My master to skin
My all to this and none to that
The embodiment of lust
The being of now

And the beginning of the end.
Thank you for coming here tonight my dear.  Send my regards to your fans and loved ones: Johnny Depp, Lucifer, Mammon, Hellraiser, Candyman, egg whites, Wool hats, Epson printers, Derek Riggs, Spider-man, Bruce Willis, Lampshade, Black Holes, Taxi drivers, Durex condoms, Hank Azaria, Simon Pegg, Colonel Sanders, Iron Man, Spike Jones, Spike Lee, Spike Speigel, Eva Green and of course his imperial majesty, David Bowie.

Maybe we’ll see each other again.
Mark Lecuona Aug 2015
which man has saved us from a dystopian future;
where each one of us must decide between good
and evil without fear of punishment from the camera
lens or laws that have become as onerous upon our
lives as a world without any law at all; which man
would be genius enough to survive his own evil

no matter the height of our intellectual achievements,
it is the emotional strain of one life in one world that
cannot care no matter how much we pray beyond
gravity’s last remaining outposts that lays waste to
souls that beg to be equal among beings made in an
image that has not been defined but merely assumed

when tears are no longer welcome as before and
when anger serves the strong well, then will the
light know to assume it’s place in the darkness which
hides from the absence of the knowing, undefined
by Gods or beasts that live in the depths choking
on sinks of man’s glorious quest for immortality

if one man knows of the legend if not each jot of
the law then would the spirit hover above his heart;
must he decide between living as a depraved knave
or martyred by unrecorded history, unfathomed
by meaning or the depths that have no end except
his will to suffer for what he once knew to be true?
Third Eye Candy Jan 2013
[From Fragments,  The Following...]

... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.


... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth.  The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.


... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.


... and that's how the rain gets in.



[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]


What ?
angela brooks Sep 2016
He was sitting on the stone cold step outside the Co-op
A thin blanket around his thin shoulders
His outstretched hand reached out to me
And touched my heart.
I gave him the cup of coffee I had been drinking
He seemed pleased, I felt good.

I saw him again on Saturday night, he looked thinner
His face hidden beneath a ***** grey hoodie.
Once more the outstretched hand reached out to me
I gave him a warm blanket, made of wool.
He grunted thanks, I felt good.

One week later I went looking for him on the stone cold step
outside the Co-op
He was sitting on the woollen blanket,
his eyes shrunken into his skull
I gave him my coat.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his covered head
And stretched his hand towards me again.
I fumbled in my purse, and gave him all I had – he grunted “Huh”
I felt I’d let him down.

My friends said I was losing weight, my clothes no longer fitted me.
I gave my sweater made of cashmere
To the hooded skeletal figure on the doorstep
outside the Co-op

His jeans were frayed and ***** from the streets
I gave him mine, they no longer fitted me.
He looked up, his broken teeth bared in a forbidding, dangerous smile.
I flinched. His outstretched hand pulled at my wrist,
I backed away, he held me.

I tried to run but his fingers tightened their grip, digging into my flesh
He pulled me in the direction of my home.
His grip on my wrist burning hot

I turned at my door to see him, he grinned, his eyes seeking my soul.
His face now no longer thin, his bony fingers now fleshy,
his rotted teeth Improved.

I looked at my hand. I saw my reflection in his eyes. My face skeletal
with shrunken cheeks,
My shadowed deep set eyes
haunted.
He laughed a croaking triumphant laugh as he entered my house
And pushed me out.


I turned and my feet took me back to the stone cold step
Where I crouched down outside the Co-op
A thin blanket appeared on my thin shoulders
I held my outstretched hand towards an approaching stranger
Who walked on by.

©AEB 14.05.16
It is warmer

In Paris
They talk about
The weather
Eat frugally
Hamburgers made of
Indian cows
Turnips from Sweden
Potatoes
From Holland
Gobbledegook
And sign on
The dotted line.
manicsurvival Aug 2013
What if this was dystopian Britain;
My droogs and I,
Sipping beverages
At the Korova milk bar,
I viddy a world of chaos
Cunning Linguist Jun 2014
Most urgent:
First we debase this worthless currency,
To usher in impending new world order
Imprisoning the globe
Then bathed in ignorance
(
Fluoridation* retarding cognitive development)

More the merrier but I transcend borders
because my mind has no barriers
Spinning diction with volatile volition
Enchanting your brain into submission

A cheese-grater to the pineal gland
Inhibiting ability to dream,
Impassioned creativity &
inquisitiveness at an impasse,
Expertly contrasting
Inquisition with inability to produce
dimethyltriptamine
Because the pacified sheep
can't sleep away their passiveness
Mass devastation for the kids & family!

Slam it down with a gra(in/m) of (bath) salt
Better yet, sugar and McDonald's
Let Ronald wash your mind in city water
Dang, there's nothing outrageous
about meandering naked
Lusting to eating someone's face
these days, is there?
(Passed out on the asphalt)

Who bares the fault,
Who cares the most?
I know you planned it Mr. President,
take your nuclear launch codes
Atop your throne with your Zionist cohorts
Fake a breath, then flip the switch
Now you am become Death
3.  
2.  
1...
Default the planet

Where's your ******* conviction?
Digest my words and eat your fat *** to death Amerika

Mind your fate
The Devil's gates
Just a step away

So take the chip beneath skin
6 6 6
Pick up sticks,
Gather a whole bundle
& Light yourself on fire (******)

Crackpot conspiracy
How can you not see
Our country's interests inherently
sit in the pockets of Nazis?

Don't even get me started on television;
hypnotized sheep
mass-media gives me aneurysms
Is the Lord truly your shepherd
or do you always stumble so blindly?

Military-Industrial-Machine
Gobbling resources at breakneck speed
CONSUME CONSUME CONSUME
FAT CAPITALIST PIGS!!

You make me feel like vomiting.

Simply waiting for the bomb
to come bump uglies with the ***** of Babylon

NOW WATCH ME GET
~ULTRASONIC~
AS I DROP
ATOMIC ELBOWS
FROM THE TOP ROPE
TO THE THROAT
IN HOPES YOU CHOKE


Leaves a bad taste in your mouth,
did I tell a ***** joke?
(Haha-ha)
GARGLE SOAP *****,
YOUR LIFE'S HOPELESS

If you like beer & NASCAR gimme a hell yeah!*  (hell yeah!)
If you like bacon & pole-dancing gimme a hell yeah!

**** THIS REPUBLIC
DYSTOPIAN,
FLOWING WITH
NECRO-DESPOTISM
A COY ACT OF VENTRILOQUISM,
ON THE WORLD'S STAGE

Tangled like a marionette in its strings,
An insect in spiderwebs
Festering infection
Just keep using band-aids ;)

Take these cocktails
of famine, death, pestilence + plague
Questionably mixed with a little apathy
and self-delusion it's all the rage

The miasma of death
Clung and hung to their silhouettes
like cigarettes
The hands of the clock
tick-tocking away the seconds toward oblivion
In which I carry, reckless abandonment

*insert some wrath of God,
explosions of nuclear & biblical proportions,
then apportion some cataclysm
Sit back,
Listen to the wailing screams of panicking children
******* lay waste to this rock already,
this organic prison
And each and every organism
that dwells within it's ecosystems


All this to bring
A radical new utopia
not for you & me
but them, the Elite
and their heathen families


Behold a new dawn;
On the verge of 100% synthetic conversion
Mind, body, & soul as pawns
Data corrupted, perverted by total divergence
Illusion of free-will ruptured and gushing,
until microscopic then atrophied

Misanthropic singularity
Quantum computing
and nanotechnology
Existentially creating cyborg zombies
& Making gods rise from machines
Kinda deus ex machina style,
But nothing Isaac Asimov could machinate even in his wildest dreams

To me, a fitting end to humanity
The Great White Ape silently weeps
Still waiting for a Messiah
*a refined repost of an earlier draft

If this poem provokes interest I strongly recommend you research the long term effects of water fluoridation, the role it plays in calcification of the pineal gland, as well as the role it played in **** concentration camps.
The **** agenda is alive and well carried out in the 20-21st century through puppet America.
Society is the world's grandest pyramid scheme.
Open your mind, and open your eyes
http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Paperclip
jake aller Apr 2019
April 15, 2019  

Prayers for the Future of the Planet

A shaman priestess
Is deep in thought
Engaged in Meditation
on the fate
Of the earth

She is deep in the cosmic woods
In the world between worlds
Where she is communing
With the spirits of the universe
Who listen to her tale of woe

She tells them
Of the rise of the neo fascists
And the refusal to address
The possible end of the world
Due to run away climate change

She prays and prays
And finally
She receives an answer
More a prediction
It is all up to humans

She has two visions
Of a possible future
Two contrasting visions
One a dystopian nightmare
The other an optimistic vision

The first
The neo fascists
Seize control
And usher in a dystopian nightmare
That ends with utter destruction

Nuclear war
Nuclear winter
Ends climate change
As civilization ends
And mankind retreat to caves

And it happens
In a blink of an eye
In less than five years
The world will end
Game over civilization ends

The second vision
The optimistic vision
Humanity wakes up
From their collective night mare
Throws off the neo fascist cabal

And begin to change the world
Making the economy works
For all of us
Not just the corrupt 1 percent
The so-called masters of the Universe

They are overthrown
In a people’s power revolution
All over the world
People wake up
Demand change

And slowly the world
Begins to recover
And overcome
The dark hours
Of the present age

The shaman priestess
Returns home
To spread the word
It up to us
To choose our fate

The end is indeed near
It is darker than you think
But it is not over yet
If we choose the path
Of the cosmic light

And overthrow
The neo fascist cabal
And restore democracy
And peace will break out
And all will end well

If not
Well she says
You have been warned
The universe has spoken
So, mote it be


April 16, 2019
Why do all fake Natives call themselves “Cherokees”?

Erasure Poem
So many fake Indians these days
Elizabeth Warren is one
And according to my DNA results
I am too

But my grand-parents spoke Cherokee my mom claims
And they disappeared into the hills
She claims

Is the DNA test wrong?
Was I adopted ?
Or is it possible
That I am a real deal

A real Cherokee
Or am I fake Cherokee???

A Cherokee weighed in on this on Quora

First, I would never call them “fake Natives”.
They are 99% white,
mostly Blue-collar, and New Age Hippie,
Anglo-Americans

who are simply
lost without their own specific identity
that they can proudly Claim,

so therefore,
they search for a certain Popular,

Romanticized segment of Indigenous People
that will “fit”
into their Family’s historical Lore.

Second, it just happens to ALWAYS be …
the Cherokee …

sometimes,
either Blackfoot or Lakota.

AND, “My GGM was a Cherokee Princess”,
as an add-on VALUE.

This is primarily
because of the vast area
formerly inhabited by the Cherokee.

However, the tribes’ interaction
with European immigrants since colonial times,
led to a great deal of intermarriage
with non-indigenous populations.

In many cases people have limited knowledge
of the other Native American nations,
that inhabited the areas in which they live.

However, a lot of this is wishful thinking,
and these people have African American
or other non-European ancestry.

It is fashionable to claim indigenous ancestry ,
in an attempt to legitimize t

Their sense of belonging on our lands.
The reason is simple,

they don’t know the names of the other tribes.
There has never been a song called
“Indian Reservation” about Apache People
or any other tribe but, the Cherokee.

“Indian Reservation”
by Paul Revere and the Raiders.

So if those people aren’t Cherokee
by blood at least it’s in spirit.

And so I conclude
I may be part Cherokee
Part of the lost tribe
Of the Cherokee

But who really knows
My mother took many things
With her to the grave
Lots of family secrets

Things I will never know
But in my heart
I know
That I am part Cherokee

And so I will proudly
Claim I am part Cherokee
In spirt
If not in blood

Source document:

Source quora
My great grandmother was a Native American, why doesn't it show on my results, not enough DNA samples from that tribe or is the extent of the genocide a possible reason?

Sam Morningstar, Native American, Ground Combat Veteran (Iraq)
Answered Apr 5
Statistically speaking, most Americans claiming their great-grandmother was Native American are just passing on family lore, and the ancestor in question wasn’t actually Native American at all, or the the lineage was much further back in their line (if it’s accurate at all).
The second thing is that there is now this recent narrative that is going around the internet that says the sample set of Native Americans in the DNA testing databases is too small, and that is what is throwing off the results for Native American admixture in North America. That’s just more of the rationalization from people fall into the scenario I described in my opening paragraph. Meaning, these are White Americans with the bogus lore that are surprised when “their Native American ancestry” isn’t showing up in DNA tests that they are taking. So, since they already believe or “know” that this exists and great-granny was a Cherokee/Native American they look for alternative narratives that help to explain or rationalize the “false results.”
It’s easier than delving into the actual genealogy and correcting the false lore they’ve inherited (and frequently internalized as their “heritage” or part of their identity).
The third possibility which is statistically slim, would be that great-granny was Native but of mixed blood, and through random genetic inheritance variation, you just didn’t get enough genetic sequences that can be identified as Native American. Usually, the range where DNA from distant ancestors gets sort of lost is at the GGG grandparent level. But, I supposed it could happen at lower levels for a mixed blood great-grandparent.
But, even then, a great-grandparent that was an actual Native American - whether full or mixed blood - would be found with genealogical records confirming their tribal affiliation. The family would be easily traced, and would tie back to a small and finite population.
The Native population in 1900 was just around 250,000 people, representing 500+ tribal nations, living in distinct communities. Most weren’t even US citizens until 1924. And they were very well tracked in records from the 1800s through the 1900s (and into present time).
It’s very easy to corroborate your “missing” Native American results by doing standard genealogy. Extremely easy
There were no communities that hid out or remained in the Ozarks. There were Cherokees that removed west prior to Trail of Tears, moving first to southeast Missouri, then Arkansas. But, they were only in that location briefly. This Arkansas population then moved to Indian Territory when the Eastern contingent was removed in 1838-1839. A few stragglers perhaps lingered on into the early 1840s, before heading to Cherokee Nation west. No community persisted there (just a few individuals families, perhaps).
The eastern Texas group wasn’t re-founded in Rusk County until the late 1840s and into the 1850s (prior to Civil War). They were mixed bloods, and were always a small community. They also weren’t hiding.
The ones that stayed in the east also weren’t necessarily hiding. A few hundred took up allotments in 1817-19, around the Nantahala and Econluftee River valleys in western NC. They were joined by a few hundred more (that were hiding or escaping the Removal) in the late 1830s, for a total of about 900-1000 souls. The other group that stayed in the east were mixed bloods married to White spouses. They did not have to hide, as they were choosing to stay according to the terms of the Treaty of New Echota.
All of these groups were found on the Siler and Chapman Rolls in the early 1850s. Then, there was the Hester Roll in 1884. They were not hiding or passing for white.
Also, the intermarriage with Blacks was always historically low for the Cherokee. And it was even lower for the mixed blood Eastern Cherokees. It happened from time to time around Qualla Boundary. But, it wasn’t necessarily common (and it wasn’t escaped slaves).
“…my grandparents spoke Cherokee, but none were considered Indian as they were never enrolled anywhere.”
The only place where Cherokees continued speaking Cherokee after Removal in 1839 was within the Eastern Band Community. That’s it. Your grandparents most certainly did not speak Cherokee unless they were members of this band. There is effectively no exception this. This community was just around 3,000 by 1924-1928. And the full blood Cherokee speakers would be a smaller subset of this total number. We are talking well under a couple thousand, tops. And you would almost certainly be a member of Eastern Band today if this were true.
My great grandmother was a Native American, why doesn't it show on my results, not enough DNA samples from that tribe or is the extent of the genocide a possible reason?
I’d say there could be a number of reasons.
How do you know your great grandmother was Native American?
Which side of the family where these things on. If it is on your father’s side maybe your father really isn’t your biological father.
Maybe there was an adoption, you, your relevant parent or your relevant grandparent was adopted.
Maybe your sample was mixed up with someone else’s or maybe where you got your DNA sample done was not really reputable.
Genocide isn’t going to be the issue with these tests missing something like that.
There is also the chance that you don’t have any of your grandmother’s genes.
Your relevant grandparent will have half of her genes. Your relevant parent you’d expect to have about 1/4 of your great grandmother’s genes but it could be that your relevant parent ended up not passing on any of your great grandmothers chromosomes or very unlikely, but still possible, doesn’t themselves have any of your grandmothers DNA.
Many people do not understand the profound differences between genealogy and genetics.
Genealogy is a cultural-defined theory about how people are descended from their ancestors. We imagine that we have one-half of our inheritance from our mothers and half from our fathers. In turn, we imagine we have one-fourth inheritance from each of our grand-parents, and in turn one-eighth from each great-grandparent, and so on. This is a useful model for thinking about the inheritance of property rights, or thinking about who is line next for the throne.
Genetics is the study of the biological inheritan...
Why do all fake Natives call themselves “Cherokees”?

You must be reading Sam Morningstar…we have SO many jokes about the wannabe Cherokees. Cherokee is probably the best known among key indigenous peoples in the colonial US, the most accessible, one of the most successful and very much already organizing themselves like Europeans. The Trail of Tears gives a rather convenient contrived heritage, as well. It’s very probable that many, many people had a Cherokee ancestor, if they were born from seven generations in the South or in the Appalachians. It’s an easy one to catch. By contrast, few people are going to claim Navajo, because of their dis...
Not “all,” but many, if not most fakes out there will claim this.
This is just part of the larger Cherokee blood lore phenomenon. A lot of these people are from older eastern colonial ancestral roots, and many legitimately have this blood myth or lore about “Cherokee blood.” Meaning, it’s a thing that gets repeated in their families, and they are just running with the claim. Some just take it for what it is, unproven lore. But, some of these people really latch onto this pseudo-identity. The more zealous and those with true mental issues will spin it into much, much, more. So, that’s when yo...

Dream 511 fake foods – erasure poem not for posting add fake things

So many fake foods
These days
Hard to keep track
Of them all

9 Popular Foods That Are Total Frauds

Whether you’re dining out
or whipping up an easy dinner
at home,

you like to think
that the foods you eat
are as advertised, right?

But even though you probably know
that Cheez ****
is a far cry from organic aged cheddar

and bottled fruit juices
don't grow on trees,

Who knew, right?
that these foods
are masquerading
as something they're not.
1. Red Velvet

A lot of people
obsesses over red velvet cake
But if they knew

that the ruby-colored dessert
was really just artificially colored
chocolate cake,
think they’d have the same reaction?

2. Wasabi

If you’ve ever
dipped a chopstick
into that creamy green substance
on your sushi plate

(and got a runny nose
and burning throat as reward),
we’ve got another
surprise for you:

That spicy stuff
is parading as something it’s not.

Traditional Japanese wasabi
is freshly grated
(it loses its heat
within a few minutes of being served)

and can cost up to $100 per pound.
To save a major chunk of change,
your local takeout spot
likely serves a substitute

that’s really a combination of mustard,
horseradish,
and green food coloring
for the characteristic hue

(95 to 99 percent of American sushi restaurants do).

The horseradish mixture is still super hot
but genuine wasabi has more of a pleasurable kick,
and less of a searing, bitter taste.
3. Crab Meat

Sorry to bust your bubble again,
sushi lovers
(especially if your go-to is a California roll):
Those crab pieces aren’t,
in fact, meat from a creature
that lives on the bottom of the sea.

So what are you eating?
Imitation crab,
which is technically called kamaboko,
a processed seafood made of surimi
(the pulverized paste of white fish flesh).

It was invented in Alaska
In the late 50’s
As a way to salvage
Some value

From the left over
Wasted fish pieces
Left over after flash freezing
Fish

It soon became
A huge seller
In Japan
Then the world

The paste is frozen,
shaved into flakes,
and ground in a vat

with starch, egg whites,
and crab-like flavorings.
Oh yeah,

and then it’s
colored with orange food dye
to make it appear more “crabby.”

How’s that for appetizing?
Imitation crab meat
is like the hot dog of seafood,"

100 percent fake
And tastes so good

4. White Chocolate

File this away for Valentine’s Day:
That box of white chocolates
isn’t the heart-boosting sweet
we’ve come to think of chocolate

Real chocolate contains
three must-have components:
chocolate liquor, cocoa butter,
and cocoa solids

But the white kind
lacks chocolate liquor and cocoa solids
—which means it’s also missing flavanols,
the antioxidants that give the authentic stuff
nutritional benefits.
5. Pomegranate Juice

Studies suggest that drinking pomegranate
juice may help prevent certain health
conditions like high cholesterol,
high blood pressure, and congestive heart failure .

Sound too good to be true?
juices claiming to be pomegranate
were actually made of grape juice and grape skins.

And in 2014,
Pom Wonderful successfully sued Coca-Cola
for false advertising

after its Minute Maid
Pomegranate Blueberry blend
turned out to be

made almost entirely from apple
and grape juice, with only 0.1 percent pomegranate juice.
6. Breakfast Syrup

Whipping up a batch of waffles
this weekend?
You may want
to think twice

before adding your toppings.
Most breakfast syrups
found at the grocery store

are nothing like traditional maple syrup,
which can be a healthy choice.

Instead of the real stuff
from maple trees,
lots of commercial versions
are made of two types of corn syrup
along with a ton of artificial additives
and zero nutritious value (sorry, Aunt Jemima).

Again 100 percent fake food
Designed by the evil food industry
Scientists to addict us to their
sweat tasting poisonous food
7. Bacon Bits

From popcorn
to soap and even deodorant,

bacon

bacon hmmm bacon hmm bacon must have my bacon
screams
my inner dog

continues to be all the rage.

But fans of the fatty pork product
won’t be too pleased to know
that those “bacon bits”
are technically vegan!

Lacking any animal products,
these crispy bites
are made of artificially flavored
textured soy flour
and other ingredients

including caramel color,
maltodextrin, yeast extract,
and flavor enhancers

called disodium inosinate
and disodium guanylate.
100 percent fake
Remember if you can’t pronounce it

It is probably bad for you
Not all vegan food
Is health food

8. Veggie Burgers

A vegetable-based patty
certainly sounds
like the better-
for-you option

over a juicy, medium-rare burger.
The problem is that veggies
masquerading as meats

are usually made of few,
if any, actual vegetables!

Instead they’re often filled
with over-processed ingredients,
including wheat gluten,
soy, and vegetable oil.

A report also found
that some patties
contain hexane,
a potentially toxic by-product
of gasoline refining.

*** Who knew?

As if that’s not enough,
some veggie burgers
are packed with sodium
(as much as 400-plus milligrams—

more sodium than a single-serving
bag of potato chips—per patty).
They are in fact
The ultimate example
Of Fake food
9. Popcorn “Butter”

You know that liquid
that squirts out of a canister
at the theater?

No spoiler alert here:
It is (dangerously)
far from the real,
grass-fed deal.

This “buttery topping”
(as it’s called on manufacturers’ websites)
is typically made
mainly from hydrogenated soybean oil

(a trans fat), artificial flavoring,
beta carotene for color,
and preservatives.

One tablespoon of the topping
delivers nine grams
of saturated fat—
half a day’s limit—

plus half a gram of naturally
occurring trans fat,
the really bad stuff that lowers
“good” HDL cholesterol
and raises “bad” LDL cholesterol

. Even more:
One common flavoring agent
is diacetyl, a toxic substance
that has been associated with lung disease.

Bottom line

Best to avoid
These fake foods
And all the other
Fake foods

That the evil food industry
Continues to foster on us

Falsely proclaiming
It is good for you
So very good for you

Source document
9 Popular Foods That Are Total Frauds
BY LOCKE HUGHES
Whether you’re dining out or whipping up an easy dinner at home, you like to think that the foods you eat are as advertised, right? Choosing fresh, whole foods is the easiest way to know you're getting what you pay for, but sometimes the convenience of a restaurant (or Seamless) wins out.

EDITOR'S PICK
12 "Healthy" Snacks That Make You Hungrier

But even though you probably know that Cheez **** is a far cry from organic aged cheddar and bottled fruit juices don't grow on trees, we had no idea that these foods are masquerading as something they're not. (Sadly, we'll never look at sushi the same way!)
1. Red Velvet
We all have a friend who obsesses over red velvet cake (and of course, its signature cream cheese frosting. Mmm frosting.). But if they knew that the ruby-colored dessert was really just artificially colored chocolate cake, think they’d have the same reaction? Sadly the trademark red hue doesn't signify any special flavor: Most red velvet recipes call for around one or two tablespoons of unsweetened cocoa powder as well as about one teaspoon of vanilla extract to create that distinct (and delicious) light, chocolate-y taste. (But some chefs work around it by naturally tinting their tasty treatswith beets.)
The Need-to-Know: A slice of red velvet cake or a cupcake isn't going to hurt you, but it's best to consider it an occasional indulgence, and not just because it's packed with sugar. "I try to minimize my exposure to artificial colorings, even though the negative impact of artificial food colorings is still controversial," says Greatist expert Mike Roussell, Ph.D., founder of Naked Nutrition.
2. Wasabi
If you’ve ever dipped a chopstick into that creamy green substance on your sushi plate (and got a runny nose and burning throat as reward), we’ve got another surprise for you: That spicy stuff is parading as something it’s not. Traditional Japanese wasabi is freshly grated (it loses its heat within a few minutes of being served) and can cost up to $100 per pound. (And you thought adding guac at Chipotle was pricy.) To save a major chunk of change, your local takeout spot likely serves a substitute that’s really a combination of mustard, horseradish, and green food coloring for the characteristic hue (95 to 99 percent of American sushi restaurants do). The horseradish mixture is still super hot but genuine wasabi has more of a pleasurable kick, and less of a searing, bitter taste.
The Need-to-Know: On the bright side, horseradish, like real wasabi, may offer some antibacterial health benefits . But with the horseradish mixture, you're ingesting some artificial flavors and colors as well. However since you're eating such a small amount (unless your mouth has gone numb!) it probably doesn't make much of a difference. Bottom line: There doesn't seem to be any real harm in the fake stuff, Roussell says.
3. Crab Meat
Sorry to bust your bubble again, sushi lovers (especially if your go-to is a California roll): Those crab pieces aren’t, in fact, meat from a creature that lives on the bottom of the sea. So what are you eating? Imitation crab, which is technically called kamaboko, a processed seafood made of surimi (the pulverized paste of white fish flesh). The paste is frozen, shaved into flakes, and ground in a vat with starch, egg whites, and crab-like flavorings. Oh yeah, and then it’s colored with orange food dye to make it appear more “crabby.” How’s that for appetizing?
The Need-to-Know: "Imitation crab meat is like the hot dog of seafood," Roussell says. "Once in a while it isn't going to **** you, but you should do better for your body." Sushi can still be a healthy choice, but stick with salmon or yellowfin tuna to ensure you’re eating what you think you ordered. Also, Roussell recommends steering clear of tilefish, shark, and swordfish due to their high mercury content.
4. White Chocolate
File this away for Valentine’s Day: That box of white chocolates isn’t the heart-boosting sweet we’ve come to think of chocolate as (and use as an excuse to eat it regularly). Real chocolate contains three must-have components: chocolate liquor, cocoa butter, and cocoa solids (often in addition to other ingredients). But the white kind lacks chocolate liquor and cocoa solids—which means it’s also missing flavanols, the antioxidants that give the authentic stuff nutritional benefits. In fact, in 2004 the Food and Drug Administration ruled that in order for a product to be called “white chocolate,” it has to contain at least 20 percent cocoa butter and no more than 55 percent sugar or other sweeteners. (This was to stop many manufacturers from using cheaper fats like vegetable oil instead of including cocoa butter).
The Need-to-Know: Despite the FDA ruling, there are still some imposters out there, so look for high-quality white chocolate with cocoa butter, which has an ivory—not pure white—hue. Even better, switch to dark chocolate.
5. Pomegranate Juice
Studies suggest that drinking pomegranate juice may help prevent certain health conditions like high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and congestive heart failure . Sound too good to be true? It might be if you’re not picky about which bottle you grab. A number of reports in the U.S. Pharmacopeial Convention’s Food Fraud Database found that juices claiming to be pomegranate were actually made of grape juice and grape skins. And in 2014, Pom Wonderful successfully sued Coca-Cola for false advertising after its Minute Maid Pomegranate Blueberry blend turned out to be made almost entirely from apple and grape juice, with only 0.1 percent pomegranate juice.
The Need-to-Know: Since there is some science that points to pomegranate's superfood qualities, you don't have to give it up entirely. Just take this as another reminder to read labels (fun as that is, we know) to be sure your drink is 100 percent pomegranate. Or learn the best way to deseed a pomegranate and reap all the health benefits in your own kitchen.
6. Breakfast Syrup
Whipping up a batch of waffles (or even better, protein pancakes) this weekend? You may want to think twice before adding your toppings. Most breakfast syrups found at the grocery store are nothing like traditional maple syrup, which can be a healthy choice. Instead of the real stuff from maple trees, lots of commercial versions are made of two types of corn syrup along with a ton of artificial additives and zero nutritious value (sorry, Aunt Jemima).
The Need-to-Know: Try to avoid the colored corn syrup and go for a bottle that lists 100 percent pure maple syrup as its one and only ingredient. Not only is it a sweeter way to top your flapjacks, but it also contains nutrients like zinc, which helps support your immune system, Roussell says.
7. Bacon Bits
From popcorn to soap and even deodorant, bacon continues to be all the rage. But fans of the fatty pork product won’t be too pleased to know that those “bacon bits” are technically vegan! Lacking any animal products, these crispy bites are made of artificially flavored textured soy flour and other ingredients including caramel color, maltodextrin, yeast extract, and flavor enhancers called disodium inosinate and disodium guanylate.
The Need-to-Know: Whether you eat meat or not, you want to skip this fake food. If you want bacon on your potato, simply chop up a slice of the real thing and sprinkle it on—one tablespoon of bacon isn't going to hurt you, Roussell says. Or try some of these delicious ways to top your spuds with actual food instead.
8. Veggie Burgers
A vegetable-based patty certainly sounds like the better-for-you option over a juicy, medium-rare burger. The problem is that veggies masquerading as meats are usually made of few, if any, actual vegetables! Instead they’re often filled with over-processed ingredients, including wheat gluten, soy, and vegetable oil. A reportalso found that some patties contain hexane, a potentially toxic by-product of gasoline refining. (What?!) As if that’s not enough, some veggie burgers are packed with sodium (as much as 400-plus milligrams—more sodium than a single-serving bag of potato chips—per patty).
The Need-to-Know: Make your own tasty version at home. Or opt for gluten-free, soy-free versions like the ones from Amy's or Beyond Meat.
9. Popcorn “Butter”
You know that liquid that squirts out of a canister at the theater? No spoiler alert here: It is (dangerously) far from the real, grass-fed deal. This “buttery topping” (as it’s called on manufacturers’ websites) is typically made mainly from hydrogenated soybean oil (a trans fat), artificial flavoring, beta carotene for color, and preservatives. One tablespoon of the topping delivers nine grams of saturated fat—half a day’s limit—plus half a gram of naturally occurring trans fat, the really bad stuff that lowers “good” HDL cholesterol and raises “bad” LDL cholesterol . Even more: One common flavoring agent is diacetyl, a toxic substance that has been associated with lung disease.
The Need-to-Know: You’re much better off popping and flavoring your own corn at home (try one of these 30 delicious and healthy variations). You didn't hear it from us, but if you pack your homemade snack inside a shoebox, no one will suspect anything (except that you scored a new pair of kicks before coming to the theater).


Catching the Trump Madness

It seems that every day
The trump madness deepens
As our leader descends
Into dementia and madness

And his followers continue
To follow having drunk the Kool aide
They don’t see the madness
That Trump has engendered

They are immune from all criticism
It is all fake news to them
Nothing but nonsense
Part of the anti-Trump cabal

And as the world descends
Into more madness
Led by the mad king
I despair

Wondering if and when
The world will wake up
And shake off this madness
This trump fever


Releasing the Trump Monsters

The Trump madness deepens
And the world grows darker
The evil ones have been released
The wild things are growling

The dogs of war
Satan’s hell hounds
Are on the loose
Howling at the moon

Running amuk
Infecting us all
With their madness
As we all turn into mindless zombies

Filled with hatred
Jealousy and insanity
As Trump and his neo-fascist
Cabal unleash the monsters

Of their dangerous id
Devouring all reason
Turning all they see
Into raving lunatics

As they set the world on fire
Ushering in the ends of days
Armageddon looms
Will Trump be raptured away?

Only God knows
And he is not telling
As we descend
Into the maelstrom

Hoping against hope
That we can overcome
The monsters
That Trump has unleashed

In the end
Perhaps it does not matter
As the world careens
Deeper into hell

There is no end
Nothing but despair
Forever and ever
The Trump madness never ends

President Trump International Fire Fighter in Chief?


Our dear leader
Our favorite President
President Trump
Once again

Interjected himself
Into areas that he knows nothing about
Making a fool of himself
In the process

Why does he do this?
Time after time
Talking nonsense
It is because

He is the smartest man
In the universe
Knows more than anyone else
And so he feels

He has to comment
On everything
Under the sun
And then some more

Even when he
Does not know
What he is talking about
So painful to watch such a fool

Mark Twain had sage advice
If you want people to think
You are a fool
Open your mouth
and remove all doubt

In the midst
Of the devastating Paris Norte Dame Fire
He tweeted

“So horrible to watch the massive fire
at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris,”

“Perhaps flying water tankers
could be used to put it out.
Must act quickly!”

Later, Mr. Obvious noted,

They’re having a terrible,
terrible fire,”

Mr Trump later told reporters.

“It looks like it’s burning to the ground.”

The French were not amused
By the unwanted advice
By the fire fighter in chief

France’s civil defense agency,
Sécurité Civile, tweeted —
once in French
and once in English
— less than two hours after Mr Trump

sent his tweet
and appeared
to directly respond to the US president.

“Helicopter or aeroplane,
the weight of the water
and the intensity of the drop
at low altitude

could indeed weaken
the structure of Notre Dame
and result in collateral damage
to the buildings in the vicinity,”

the agency wrote in French.
And despite never posting updates in English,
the agency then sent out a second tweet.

Hundreds of firemen of the Paris Fire Brigade are doing everything they can to bring the terrible #NotreDame fire under control. All means are being used, except for water-bombing aircrafts which, if used, could lead to the collapse of the entire structure of the cathedral.
— Sécurité Civile Fr (@SecCivileFrance) April 15, 2019

And the French provided
This helpful advice
To the Fire Fighter in chief

When California burned
you did not seem to be a fire expert.
Please, shut up.
It is a tragic moment
for the cultural heritage of humanity.

US President Donald Trump lashed
https://edition.cnn.com/2019/04/15/politics/donald-trump-notre-dame-fire-boeing-737-max-twitter/index.html
for ‘ignorant’ tweet about Notre Dame
World leaders mourned with France as the country watched its historic landmark burn. But Donald Trump’s Notre-Dame tweet fell flat.

Notre Dame fire: Thousands watch as cathedral burns

As a catastrophic fire tore through one of the world’s most beloved cultural treasures, US President Donald Trump assessed the response from the other side of the globe and offered unsolicited advice for firefighters.

“So horrible to watch the massive fire at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris,” Mr Trump tweeted earlier today as more than 400 firefighters tried to save the Notre Dame cathedral.
“Perhaps flying water tankers could be used to put it out. Must act quickly!”

The spire collapses as smoke and flames engulf the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. Picture: Geoffroy Van Der HasseltSource:AFP
Mr Trump had tweeted from Air Force One, minutes before he landed in the US state of Minnesota for a speech.
“They’re having a terrible, terrible fire,” Mr Trump later told reporters. “It looks like it’s burning to the ground.”
France’s civil defense agency, Sécurité Civile, tweeted — once in French and once in English — less than two hours after Mr Trump sent his tweet and appeared to directly respond to the US president.
“Helicopter or aeroplane, the weight of the water and the intensity of the drop at low altitude could indeed weaken the structure of Notre Dame and result in collateral damage to the buildings in the vicinity,” the agency wrote in French.
And despite never posting updates in English, the agency then sent out a second tweet.
Hundreds of firemen of the Paris Fire Brigade are doing everything they can to bring the terrible #NotreDame fire under control. All means are being used, except for water-bombing aircrafts which, if used, could lead to the collapse of the entire structure of the cathedral.
— Sécurité Civile Fr (@SecCivileFrance) April 15, 2019
Mr Trump’s tweet was almost universally slammed, with many of the president’s Twitter followers calling his advice “ignorant”.
When California burned you did not seem to be a fire expert. Please, shut up. It is a tragic moment for the cultural heritage of humanity.
— PabloMM (@PabloMM) April 15, 2019
Flying water tankers would damage the building, nice try


Hundreds of firemen of the Paris Fire Brigade are doing everything they can to bring the terrible #NotreDame fire under control. All means are being used, except for water-bombing aircrafts which, if used, could lead to the collapse of the entire structure of the cathedral.
— Sécurité Civile Fr (@SecCivileFrance) April 15, 2019

Wayne McPartland, a retired New York City Fire Department battalion chief, told CNBCthat aerial tankers are not the answer at Notre Dame.
“If you hit that with tons of water from above, that’s going to collapse the entire structure and make the situation worse,” McPartland said. “If you miss, you might hit civilians in the street.”

Little Man Child President

A little man child
Is our great and glorious dear leader
Filled with hatred and jealousy
Fear of failure haunts his every step

The little man child
Covers up his failures
With bluster, bravado
And constant attack

The little man child
Always attacking his enemies
Plotting revenge all the time
Consumed with slights and insults

The little man child
Lost millions of dollars
The little man child
Lost the popular vote

The little man child
Has lost the respect of the world
And 60 percent of Americans
Want to see him gone

The little man child
Has infected the body politic
With his insidious poison
A slowly growing cancer

The little man child
Will end up destroying
The country
Before he is through

The little man child
Can’t leave office
For fear of going to prison
So we are stuck with him

The little man child
Will never leave us
Until he is resting
In peace in hell
Licenses

Bankers have a license to steal
money from their clients
if you make a mistake
the bank can steal your money
as part of their banking license

Governments have a license
to steal money
from the public
its is called taxation
or confiscation

It seems
that police these days
have a license
to ****
unarmed brown people
but only brown people

and the president
has a license
to lie
as he lies
all the time
just because he can

and I have
the ultimate license
the poetic license
to write
these verses
to enlighten the masses


April 21
it is darker than you think

It is darker than you think

an old hag
an old witch
strictly old school
is talking to young people

She tells them
that it is darker
than they think
the end times approach

She proclaims
she sees the world ending
and is warning them
of what is to come

She is following
the dark master
of the universe
waiting for the end

and she is afraid
she sees the world
the end of things
the end of life

She is afraid
she tells her students
to boldly face
the coming end

with fear
and trepidation
and anxiety
waiting for the end

and in the end
of the world
they will be born
again

as things circle back
to the beginning
of the end and the end
of the beginning

thus it has always
played out
in the world
endless nightmares

and in the end,
she will wake up
and embrace her fate
at the end of time


April 22, 2019

Spring Time Sketch in Youngchando, Korea

In the early morning dawn
I like to go for a walk
Down among the cherry trees
And flowering plants

Just to welcome
Another fine spring day
As the sun comes up
Dispelling my dismal mood

And filling me
With love
Hope and peace
As I walk the path

Of the world peace forest
Near my island home
Near the chaos of the airport

Through the forest
and over the mountain
breathing the spring time air
alive filled with life

and I think to myself
this moment
is the moment
that I am meant to experience

life itself
and nothing more
nothing less
Just breath in life
poems written for April month of poetry challenge  using writers digest prompts can be found at all poetry, writers digest and at my blog, https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com
PC classic Feb 2018
Sad movies are personal disasters
observed from a safe space
like watching a tiger in ANIMAL PLANET sink its teeth into a deer
or knowing that climate change will destroy our species in the next 100 years

Sad movie is like a dystopian era
where the society only sees itself
through selfie lenses and one day re-discovers mirror  

a sad movie is like finally confronting
the kids who bully you at school
and then
going to jail for child abuse because you are a 35 year old kindergarten teacher

sad movie is like that clingy friend who cant stop creating
unnecessary suspenses in his daily interactions
because his parents emotional absence left him attention deprived.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT WILL BLOW YOUR MIND

sad movie is like a picture of a broken reverse osmosis system bcos
#nofilter (sorry)

Sad movie is like Neil Armstrong on the moon
hiding the whole earth behind his *******

sad movies is like finding out that ONE LIKE was actually equal to ONE PRAYER this whole time
and a child in Africa remained hungry because of your skepticism.
You *******.

sad movie is like your **** peddler
stacked with cash
on the eve of November 8 2016

A sad movie is like visiting the Pyramid of Giza and leaving a one star review on Google

A Sad movie is like farmers falling in love with sad clouds or
Indonesians befriending chatty volcanoes

sad movies are terrorists sending thumbs up emoji to base before burning down a city

sad movie is a sad ******* overexploiting the tragic genre of the visual medium of storytelling to make semi whimsical analogies

Sad movies are archaeologists fighting nazis instead of dusting weird stones and recreating human history

A sad movie is like
deciding to measure your age
only in multiples of 7
and then dying at 69
BarelyABard Jan 2013
Can you please save me?
I am drowning.
I am drowning in the land of the free and home of the...
(wait, what was that last part again?)
We had so much potential...
We saved the world.
We cared for it gently.
Now that has been shoved to the side.
I am drowning in this dystopian plutocracy.
I can't breathe over the advertisements.
My lungs are filled with empty words.



I sink into the static...

— The End —