"exploitive" poems
In your past, this past
they weren't valued
no one said they were members of the family
what walks on four legs and is furry and cute is only
to last as long as nature intended and then to be disposed of
Veal calves in crates, taken from mothers on the day of their birth
to make more milk for humans, horse slaughter for glue
and foi gras, ducks and geese locked in a vice grip of their cages
metal tubes rammed down their throats and force fed until a liver disease
develops, painful, but given no respite
and served as a delicacy and
fur coats from animals skinned alive right here in America
still when mink farms are outlawed in the Netherlands and
two million dogs and cats skinned in China every year not to mention
other horrors and no one cared or looked their way because they are
only animals, and voiceless and helpless and no one cared to give them
a voice or advocacy
"that's why they're there, for our use, people still say" who profit from an industry
of suffering
And today, there are people who try to give them a voice and there are veterinarians who will try to help you with your member of the family, as he suffers, in his old age
a bag of fluids hangs from my exercise bike, and intermixed with my medications
is the painkiller and anti-nausea pills for my dear old friend
whose pancreas is failing
and father, this is foreign to you
you pretend it is a crime
silence is the only thing connecting us now
I hope you enjoyed your last barrage of unkind words
I think you did. The saddest thing I've learned about people like you
is
you feel better after such an attack, to see me reeling, bleeding on the ground
and you feel better, calmer and purged.
A kind of misbegotten peace settles over you
an exploitive peace from another's tears and pain
And yes, father, there were no agencies to give a voice to children
when you were young
no CPS, to aid my nine year old ***** friend
as a code of silence enveloped her attacker
to protect him, the one who destroyed her
But today there is a small brigade of a modern kind of love
to give a voice, protection, soothing to the ones who can
only suffer at our hands and not protect themselves from
our wrath and exploitation
and it is a better world for that, father
for my furry pancreatic friend and for any other
nine year old **** victims here
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
Exclusively molded in the divine image
or egos big enough to declare it so
A dangerous theory
a disastrous belief system
Gardeners of Eden
turned stewards of entropy
Superiority conquest of nature
symbiotic balance forsaken
Jealous hoarders of spirituality,
sentience, self-awareness, intelligence
The irrational glorification of reason
despite a history of upheaval and war
Bullies on the playground of manifest destiny
exploitive excess worshiped as progress
Arrogantly intoxicated on the dregs of Pandora's jar
blindly stumbling toward self-destruction
Welcome to the valley of the shadow of death
Environmental Armageddon
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
I was conceived on acid and whippets, the drugs a kaleidoscope of umbilical dreams.
I was conceived on bad luck and lust, from darkness and sexually exploitive childhood trauma.
I was conceived on teenage dreams and difficult childhoods, to black sheep children of 17.
I was raised on addiction and narcissism, a love bomb here and authoritarian abuse there.
I was raised on the chess long game, to lose a piece here means to win at the end.
I was raised on 2000s tv, Lorelei Gilmore my wish for a mother, Rory my idol.
I taught myself strength in building up a fantasy on the outside while my castle crumbled within.
I picked myself up by the tendrils of a lost childhood, by the whispers of good memories, by the hiding places I found in pages upon pages of someone else’s imagination.
And I let it all go at 28. To find peace. To start over. To build myself a new castle with no more haunted corners or echoes of pill bottles or smells of ***** and orange juice permeating the breaths of those who walk these sacred halls.
Rib cage cut open, heart destroyed and renewed, ancient umbilical nooses cut with teeth.
I will no longer fall victim to my mother’s circumstances or my father’s mistakes, I will never have the soul I’ve created look at me and ask himself if he is loved or safe.
I am cycle breaker,
I am generational karma’s worst ******* fear,
I am no longer frightened maiden,
I am fearsome mother.
I am new.
May 17, 2022
May 17, 2022 at 12:15 PM UTC
Sometimes,
I imagine I'm some
mourning starlet
who sings Lana Del Rey
at the club
every Saturday night.
A honeyed halo of stage light
tangles itself about
the curled labyrinth
of my hair,
sparkles gold against
my tearing irises.
My mouth parts
and the war cries begin.
In the moments that
the melody offers
my voice repose,
I pound shots to the beat
of the drummer's ramblings.
The crowd applauds
my tipsiness,
their hoots of praise
shaking at the depths
of my eardrums
like an intoxicated tambourine.
My neuroticism
fascinates these people,
I think.
Not in an
exploitive,
let's-glamourize-depression
kind of way,
but in an
it is a truth universally acknowledged
kind of way--in a
******* cuz I've been there too"
kind of way.
See,
within my little,
concocted fantasy
of stage light
and music
and *****
the people don't judge me
the way they do
on the outside.
Here,
I am not
melodramatic or
overly sensitive or
disposable.
Here,
my war cries sound
a little less
like death and
a little more
like poetry.
Here,
they love me
in spite of the sadness.
Here,
we share a song--
here,
they sing with me.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 11:24 PM UTC
There is a day when dreams are
Exiled, left to waste away --
The dry sands of tomorrow.
Magnificent dreams,
Too daring, ambitious, demanding,
Cast aside, in hopes that they’ll
Flourish on their own.
We’ll dream once more…
Tomorrow
There is a day when opportunities
Are swallowed by the tides,
And sink to fathomless trenches
Never to be seen again,
For there might be another one…
Tomorrow.
There is a day when unspoken words
With the potential to change a life sit
In one’s tongue, embittering over time,
Since someone else will speak them…
Tomorrow.
There is a day when the Earth will perish
By exploitive and negligent hands.
We were all aware of what was to come,
So let us amend our ways...
Tomorrow.
Somethings simply just cannot wait.
Perhaps tomorrow is a day too late.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
I fumble my tongue to please my brain. To ensue the passion of hilarity for others through the shame I lack.
If you write, you write wrong. No, sorry, you write incorrectly... No still not the right writing.
The grammar you possess is lacking enthusiasm in construction and production.
You fumble words in a loose platonic, exploitive passion of hilted disappointment.
Grammar and creation grow as production does. One-to-one the tower grows on an even playing field of iron I-beams and the office on aluminum T shaped cubical walls.
I apologize profusely if this has been difficult to process. Let us consider this a difficult simulation of your current level on sentence structure, and comprehensive understanding.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
paid mercenaries
these are not riots
this violence is all paid for
you have sold your souls
you have sold your souls
you have sold your souls
you have sold your souls
you have sold your souls
you are stirred up pawns
you have been pawns
for a long, long time
voter puppets of the democratic party
not ever expected to think for yourself
so easily used
and manipulated
kept in a different type
of slavery
shaped and honed and fed
like cattle
in a stall
to be used only as
inseminators
(let's create more voters)
not allowed to be fathers
(let's **** the family)
(family?)
( what's that?)
fatherhood
a forgotten trait
only progenitors
raised by generations of women
on the dole
fathers not allowed
in the home
used, used, used
can't
won't
see it!
stirred up in the cauldron of anger
who are the real haters????
???
??? whose lives matter???
???
only those killed and used for media attention
and believe me, they are used by everyone
from the president on down
never waste a good crisis
and
when necessary
create
one
do the large numbers
of
brother killing brother
matter?
and why not?
we don't hear about those numbers
on the nightly news
guess those lives must not matter
do the lives lost
the babies killed
the genocide of planned parenthood
one in every neighborhood
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
no one speaks of them
why not?
why not?
why not?
why not?
why not?
why not?
because brother against brother
and baby genocide
don't matter
to the media
HELLO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
they all fall in line with Bill Gates
population control
anyway
only the deaths
used for
exploitive
incendiary
political purposes
matter
to the elitists
the George Soros types
and the media
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
generations of pawns
whose usefulness
will soon be over
being used one more time
to start all these fires
where will these pawns be
when the fires go out?
who will bother
to pay them
to feed them
then?
their usefulness
to massa'
will be over
then.
I cry for the pawns
for my brothers and sisters
for all the fatherless
children.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much
a life is worth so
a life is worth
a life is
a life
a
.
.
.
.
.
Cj 2016
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
Behind my apartment complex
is a small creek
dry most of the year and filled
with trash
it gurgles this time of year with
brown foamy water
the wash of industrial civilization
at first the smell is foul, but now
is merely murky and there is no
smell and a pleasing sound of water
I look for signs of coziness around me
and I notice steam rising from the laundry
room that is visible in the cold
like a chimney puffing comfy smoke
into the rainy air
And I think of you and I'm afraid
I thought of you in Walmart
My life--this is the real thing
there are no romantic castles, only
a wet shopping cart in a crowded exploitive store
As I passed by the packaged vegetables
and stared at the racks and racks of ugly clothes
I thought, I am in control
The fear wells up inside of me
fear of HIM. That him who squashed me
who took over my mind
I think of all the books I read, as people pass
by with very important shopping to do and
a homeless man makes a decision about which milk to buy
and he smells horrible, like decay and wetness
and people resent him and I wish
there were no homeless people
I wish there was more caring and less brutality in our world.
The key is not to care about HIM until you know who he is
The key is to keep your distanced mind in judgement
And I must remember this key because I swear
no one will ever hurt me that much again.
I am a hidden creek, a pristine one, because I would
never hurt the natural world as we have
He cannot see it, or any other he, until
I know exactly who he is.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
Masterful ownership, I am lost between cards, the green table, set and speckled, distracted by the colors and forgetful of the number, exploitive, love the spices, and aggressive, and tired of being bullied, fragrance chasers, chortling in remarks blase in cafe's I'm meager minded but with fortunate background, I am spoiled but somehow burst from the bubble, some sort of rodent stuck out of time, letting the chemicals do their work, like dousing a cheetah in kerosine, just most toxic and full of rage, spotted and dying, closer to living without restraint, devoid of taste, my fears overwhelm me, driving me, my own secufled
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
The uniting spirit between us
hundreds of thousands of years and
we lived as hunter-gatherers
This blip in civilization
has been the ascension of the individual
Look at all us tyrants can do by exploiting the universal potential
Spur on division amid the masses and channel any
enlightening sciences into lip service appeasements
that only serve to enhance the status quo
hum-ho, regular old exploitive system
we verify by looking back
in our teleological telescopes
Just like the Dutch East India pirates in the Spice Islands
The worst of it is the hypocrisy of it all
Saying they're for freedom and rights
and endorse the man from Galilee handing out fish to
panhandling outcasts, but no
of course the killing is worse
than the irony in between
MacDonald's dead, his tartan's in rags
We're powerless
so we became smart as kids
Putz around, find out stupid ruthlessness wins
Some folks just can't do it
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 11:25 PM UTC