"facist" poems
skipping on lilypads of monotony
dancing under the stars bright like a phone flash in a completely dark room that's like super bright and totally blinds you
it's so troubling being a teenage white girl living in a facist world
racecar is a palindrome
potato salad is disgusting
never ending fields of dandelions stretching in front, feeling the cool summer breeze
wifi is un reliable
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist
humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
Cosmic man
must have waited forever to learn about sarcasm.
Poor guy probably had to watch sunrises
and sleep outside like a ***
Even bums have the TVs in store window.
I bet he never even knew how bored he was.
Cosmic man
he must have liked the sound of birds singing
and probably ******** on all the fish.
That was like
the only music he could listen to.
He probably doesn't know that nature is a ******* sell-out.
Cosmic man
probably thought he loved his family.
He probably never ran away from home
because his Dad's a ****
He probably never got tell his Dad
**** off in front of all his friends.
He probably never stole his Dad's car
just to show him how he's a **** facist.
I'll bet he cried when his Dad died,
and that's just sad.
Cosmic man
you are our wailing wall.
You stand, made from the same rock they used to break your skull.
Felt the unbearable pain of waking up before 9.
You had to hold
in all the universe
so we could pick through it.
He waited forever so we could tell him it wasn't worth it.
Cosmic man probably doesn't know how ironic that is.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
With the Passion of Cassius smashin' the classless and the facist
With the vernacular of Malcolm and paired with such passion the outcome attacks with tact and impact because in it's very nature it is offensive
With the cosmic knowledge of Albert, but we do not speak in relativity,
Only what is exactly no biased or levity
With the strength of a million men, no, a million pens, because I'm told the word is mightier than the sword,
But I've seen a man bring a pen to a fight and swiftly his life was no longer his right but a privilege he had once taken for granted
And the man who brought a sword to fight with honor was honored to die from a distant spiraling bullet because even the art of war has evolved beyond civility
That's why I wear Teflon vests, but never a mask, to make sure they look me in the eyes to get rid of me...
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
Young Mohan was three by the time
Borders were made
And an angry facist peddler sung in disdain,
Sentiments were breached and so was time,
There were bloodsheds more often by the time he was nine;
In patriotic leu and an abundant of moral synecdoche
Religion, apathy, martyr meaning terrorism
Young Mohan was thrown
As a vendor who stole money
And saw women on screen,
The green had gone green
Humanity was a partake on films
Flimsy films and orange bandanas
Verbal stench ruining the hymn of jove,
Topsy turvy Independence naught,
Mohan had seen women with tops
And women without them,
He had seen them dressing with conch flowers delicate on their boudoir of black facade,
And he stared to what the Country had become
In the orange lights of Saree,
And the spit of beetle juice,
His country was sold.
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 1:19 PM UTC
Feelings rush around my body provoking the thoughts in my head.
The struggle to delineate right from wrong bares down on me like a heavy dark shadow carrying the weight of my misgivings.
Am I a tool furthering destructive programming from big brother?
Or
a hapless dreamer looking for silverlinings in the dark ?
From divided love and loyalties,
I swing: a pedulum of frustration and anxiety one minute and stop in apathy the next.
Perception and point of views have too many depths to dive into.
each one a murky abyss offering nothing but the promise of enduring mystery.
I throw my hands up
and still get shot anyway
I show the colour of my beliefs
and im labelled a facist
I fight for my freedom
and am labelled a racist
I respond to hatred with contempt
and im held in contempt
I fight a war that I never started
and found myself left to my own devices
The enemy laughs
as it uses our enlightenment
against us.
Delusional,
we think we're winning
Propaganda machine doesn't sleep,
always on a
24 hour
need to know basis.
I stole love and I withheld it
I cried poor and never meant it
The vice in my hands
told me to do it
What happens now?
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
Jackboots
Exactly what are jackboots, eh? Tell me.
Well, jackboots were designed by this guy, Jack,
You see, because jacksneakers didn’t work
And jackloafers were out of the question
Jack wanted a boot everyone could hate
Even though they didn’t know what it was
And so anyone you don’t like wears jackboots
You polish them nicely with vitriol
Available at finer shops everywhere
And you’re a Facist…Facsit…Fascist, dude!
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
Where have we gone wrong?
Is this wrong?
We can hardly stand to speak to
one another anymore.
Does anyone remember how to
actually use the telephone feature
of the device that they carry
in their pockets?
Is this the future?
Am I living in the past?
How does one stay grounded, centered,
in the moment, these days, these months,
this godforsaken year?
Everything,
every conversation,
even my plate of biscuits & gravy
has been politicized, polarized,
punctuated, with the pugilism of
keystroke pundits.
On most Sunday afternoons,
I sit and compose.
My own musings;
the oatmeal of my mind.
Waiting for Goldilocks,
maybe a bear or three.
Come Monday,
I’m incarcerated for the day,
playfully playing the role
of Counselor
to men with addiction-issues;
an outright aversion to following
the norms of our less-than-gracious
Golden Age.
I might say that I’m playacting,
but I take it all very seriously.
(Not myself, mind you,
the work done inside those iron-gates.)
I refuse to perform with an angry eye,
heart or mind.
Seeking
clarity.
Showing
concern.
Are you a help or a hindrance?
This might be the question
we all could answer,
especially now,
on the downward slope
of
The 21st year
of the 3rd Millienia.
We’ve elected an inept celebrity.
Several of us love that facist fact,
loading out in our flag-adorned F-150s.
(Yee-haw!)
What a shame.
What a sham.
What a shambles our humanity
is in.
Our souls scream for something
that feels like success,
security, surety.
Even those whom are seen
as the least of us;
who vote against their own
self-interests,
they deserve better than
The Beast of Us.
Our faces hidden behind masks,
tearful eyes,
our fellow citizens have died,
our leaders lied,
we rioted, protested,
looted,
in response to jack-booted oppressors.
Confessors?
None.
This battle,
this race of inequity
may never be won.
Still,
we run.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublicarions 2020
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 9:50 PM UTC
Feelings rusharound my body provoking the thoughts in my head.
The struggle to delineate right from wrong bares down on me like a heavy, dark shadow carrying the weight of my misgivings. Am i tool furthering destructive programming from big brother? Or a hapless dreamer looking for silverlinings in the dark ?
From divided love and loyalties, I swing a pedulum of frustration and anxiety one minute and stop laguudly into apathy the next. Perception and point of views have too many depths to dive. Each one a murky abyss offering nothing but the promise of enduring mystery.
I throw my hands up,
and still get shot anyway
I show the colour of my beliefs and I AM labelled a facist
I fight for my freedom and am labelled a racist
I respond to hatred with contempt and I am held incontempt!
I fight a war that i never started and found myself left to my own devices.
The enemy laughs as it uses our enlightenment against us.
Delusional we think we're winning
Propaganda machine doest sleep always on a 24 hour need to know basis.
I stole love and I withheld it
I cried poor and never meant it
The vice in my hand told me to do it
What happens now?
Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC