"fascists" poems
The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.
Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.
She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.
She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.
She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.
Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.
I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.
Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.
Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.
I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.
If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
the simple true |
vs.
absurd ********
water on mars points to the future of
the dead earth;
Fascists vs. aliens | complete fossils of advanced
hominids found miles
deep below [ ]
the Martian surface [but w/ no signs
of engineering or built structures]
questions w/ no answers |
what kind of society did Martians have:
dictatorship, democracy or empire & what kind of poetry
did they write:
searching for the great epic poet
of Mars beginning by digging straight down past the fossil record
coming upon an entirely other set of structures & fossils dated
thousands of years before those previously found
& further down, more advanced forms of society
at the deepest strata advanced electronics & technology appears
w/ less & less hominid forms, n still w/no evidence of written
poetry
|
Martian poetry may have been oral; so in
setting up sound meters to detect
residual radio-sound waves, the history of sound can be
recorded & focused on any one particular voice or several:
from this we detect recited verse
no matter how far back it was uttered; in truth, the older the better as it's
easier to distinguish & isolate the particular voice
from ambient rhythms
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
This new world order
is more like disorder.
such a serious disorder
psychological disorder!
There's no more Syria
all is left is Fearia
and here in Serbia
it's the State of Disturbia
we're severely disturbed,
our minds are polluted
we're like half-people,
alive but executed.
Some big sharks
sharp their teeth on our bones.
World is again invaded by fascists
or their even worse clones!
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC
Suspected of attack
On fascist Graziani
He was in house arrest
As the case was with
Suspects the rest.
A prisoner of war
Then via Somalia
He was sent to Rome
Found a black lion
If left at home.
Together with
A prison inmate
From Yugoslavia
Called Julio
He made a rope
Out of a blanket
The reason
To descend down
And escape
From a tower prison.
In a show of contempt
Defying officials' attempt
To smoke out a fugitive
On the hide
The two at eventide
Returned to open fire
And attack guards
To set free prisoners
Indeed, victory was
On their side.
Leading partisans
Abdissa made it his duty
To gruel fascists
With insurgent activity.
What was the outcome?
Parallel to the allied forces
When he entered Rome
With Ethiopia's tricolor
Around his wrist
He was accorded
A warm welcome.
Then he turned his face
To allied-forces'-
'For Berlin' race
In rooting out **** troops
He spurred the pace!
Asked to stay in Europe
He said shalom
"Home sweet home!
As written on the bible
Can an Ethiopian change
His skin
or a leopard its spots?
Doing so
Will it not be a sin?"
The unsung hero
Returned to Addis
Turning Fascist and Nazis'
Wild dreams to zero!
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 11:53 PM UTC
across the pond,
I lived off the diet of
some 55 year old bachelor
racing towards the past
only, I looked forward to
so much more than
my mother's improved health.
I would find books and read them
laying them vulnerable and bare
to my devouring mind. *(I swear
to god, there's an approachable
Minotaur among my grey matter.)*
I skipped Barcelona with an alcoholic
to research gay fascists and history's
slaughter benches. I hand-wrote that paper
just so I could feel something at work besides
strong coffee and false anxieties about projected moments.
I raised my hand, countless times
in foreign classes with tobacco residue
creased to my sheet paper. While others
slept or day-dreamed about the pigeon **** outside
*but I smiled at the professor, & mommy and daddy sent them
capitalist notes with the appearance of life.*
I met a girl, who got to know me through
all five senses, at once. Speaking more languages
than half this world is aware of, I danced til my flight
departed and I knew which city was my favorite, because
I knew nothing of it going in and having no expectations
opens me like an oyster whose made multiple pearls.
I lost my scarf there, in Italy,
a beautiful one with conversational brilliance
falling to disappearance on my final night, after the rains
of Tuscany had drenched away my need for movement
and the winds of Ventotene had me sailing with
men, I knew nothing of. *After I cried on the floor
over the beauty of Hegel and Marx and fell into
Nebulae of epiphanies.*
across the pond, my life had verve.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
#Winston Churchill Defies the Nazis
#Intersectionality come together
#As one we are cliché strong privileged
#Patriarchy ethically sourced all options
#Are on the table chilling effect quagmire
#Teutons behaving badly doomsday clock
#Transgressive sustainable Guccifer
#Renewable change the gender binary
#Wiretapped microinequity
#Unity in diversity is strength
#Build bridges not borders no fascists here
And let The People say “#Meme”
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
No one could love me
Because even I hate myself
So I always know there is no 'we'
And that there never could be
I'm lost among the masses
A sea of blurs to by cast away
In a world of ambition and fascists
No one can know what peace is
Am I insane for running?
Can there be no cure?
I know how disturbed I'm becoming
I don't know if anyone's listening
If not then only to myself am I talking
Shuffling feet in directionless walking
No one to give hope for the future
I'm lost and here for the finding
If only there was anything worth being found
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
Feathered Fiends
by Michael R. Burch
Fascists of a feather
flock together.
Alternate:
Conformists of a feather
flock together.
I came up with the "Fascists of a Feather" epigram after Donald Trump repeatedly praised authoritarian "strong men" like Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong Un, Rodrigo Duterte, Xi Jinping and Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. Heroic Americans fought a war against fascism and many of them paid the ultimate price, so why is Trump giving comfort to the enemy of democracy?
The alternate version of this couplet was written first and won a National Couplet Contest sponsored by the Society of Classical Poets. The couplet has now been published in one form or another on the websites of major newspapers and news services like TheHill.com, Haaretz.com (Israel), Crikey.com (Australia), Cleveland.com (as the headline of a letter to the editor), Reddit Political Humor, and Humane Conservatives Unite Blog. Sometimes the epigram is quoted in reader comments, sometimes by the writers of letters to the editor, and sometimes within articles.
Keywords/Tags: fascists, flock, together, fascism, conformists, nazis, blackshirts, brownshirts, dictator, tyrant, autocrat, despot, totalitarian, cultist, militarist
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 12:48 AM UTC
Clearing ivy,
pulling up handfuls of
choking bindweed,
uncovering delicate
wildflowers in
neglected garden corners,
and there’s this
tiny bird
lying in the dirt.
Feathers sparkle
pretty and golden,
as fairytale light
falls through
parted vines.
Surely dead,
but then
- like Snow White
surfacing from
magic apple-induced
dormancy -
the bird moves,
woken by the kiss
of sunlight and
being witnessed,
and seems to breathe.
A gloved finger’s
exploratory, leathery ****
a moment to realise,
then disgust,
sharp recoil.
A wing lifts;
gleaming feathers
parting reveal the
crawling mechanics inside,
the writhing, parasitic mess
behind the sick illusion,
the briefly faked miracle
of something
like life.
Away over a fence,
Union bunting
***** erratic and jarring
in a neighbour’s garden.
In a stuffy town hall,
the town band is practising
God Save The Queen, but
still can’t keep time.
Our betters wave to us from
high palace balconies
and golden coaches, and we
cheer them for it.
There’s such hunger, such
pain and desperation out there,
you can feel it, if you
forget to stop yourself.
There’s so much tragedy and injustice,
you have to go numb or go crazy.
There’s no future we can see,
and the past has been rewritten
to reflect the views
of focus groups,
fascists and fantasists.
And there’s a bird
lying in the dirt,
garlanded by fragrant petals,
feathers flashing like jewels,
so dead
it looks like
it’s breathing.
Jun 3, 2022
Jun 3, 2022 at 7:31 AM UTC
I have observed that history rhymes,
with no exact repeats each time.
As foreign nationals flock to fight
For ISIS and the Caliphate.
It seems I’ve heard this tune before
When socialists fought in the
Spanish war.
That dress rehearsal for World War Two
That played out on the Iberian plains.
Then Communists and Fascists fought
and idealists were slaughtered for their dreams.
Now in the village of Kobane
Its U.S. drones, not **** Planes,
The Kurds expel the men in black
Who leave behind their friends remains.
Foreign fighters by the score
won’t need their passports anymore.
They fought against America,
Is this a second Guernica?
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
The army had revolted and the Republic was at risk,
But we were just a small town- what had we to do with this?
My father, Manuel Robles, was a labor Union man.
Some called him a Communist; only now I understand.
The army had a list of men whose loyalty was suspect
And when the civil war broke out they came for them direct.
They took him, and some others, and lined them up against a wall.
It was then I heard the volley and I watched my Father fall.
They checked upon their handiwork, I cannot forget the face
Of the officer who used his pistol to give the coup de grace.
The piled the corpses on their truck and, laughing, drove away.
All were buried in a common grave to wait the Judgement day.
I stared in speechless horror at the blood soaked, thirsty ground
and at the pock marks in that wall caused by some misspent rounds.
There was no judge, no jury, no verdict, nor decree.
They killed a dozen unarmed men ; that was their victory
They slaughtered my dear padre without a second thought.
I would not go so easily; there are others, too, who fought.
Now Franco has my country and I’ve had to flee from Spain.
My heart is with my Father’s bones. I carry on his name.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
★ ✰ ✪ ★ ✰ ✪ ★ ✰ ✪
The Baby-Hole, her baby-hole!
Turn back before you lose your soul.
Those walls of pink, those gates of pearl
grant entrance to each boy and girl
who come through this organic portal:
newly-born and merely mortal.
Mystery to be dignified—
explored, adored, objectified:
the baby-hole’s expanding chasm,
promising celestial spasm,
is limned in deliquescent love
and fits the soul as hand in glove.
Beware her tantalizing pull
where poetry turns vaginal.
From depths profound, God can create
(where man would merely **********
hitting Mother Nature’s high note
as the gamete turns to zygote).
Semi-seconds’ spurting passion
years of living baby fashion.
After pleasure’s jest, gestation
thus augments the population;
teenage dads recalibrate,
unsure just what to celebrate.
Yet, if they knew the daring risk
their ***** endure, they’d slip a disc;
to realize what threatening odds
confront these flagellated gods:
(see Luke in Star Wars, [number IV]
battling fascists in the war
alone in the zone to shoot the shot
that blows the death star up. Let’s not
miss out on noting, in this theme,
life’s true conception. So the team
of X-wing pilots flew the run,
eliminated one by one
save Luke, who penetrated deep
the death-star’s ovulated keep
and overcame the egg’s defense
and hit the mark. It all makes sense.
The spheroid bursting in his sight
depicts Conception's glorious might).
Therefore, show the matrix honor.
Shoot and leave—your star’s a goner:
nurture growth while life allows you,
while your star can still espouse you.
Seek her core of hidden gnosis
don’t just set off cell mitosis…
not, that is, unless you are sure
that the three of you won’t end up poor.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a ***** I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
White Knights
like to dress up
all hooded & ****
with slit-eyes and
pointy tops
to their
sheet-thing
& they come out
when its real dark
& burn stuff
& parade all around
shadowed bonfire-lit
in secluded fields
like lost
& deluded
drooling idiots,
they think they
walk the walk
& feel real fine
& fancy
with their grand wizard
lord of this & that
& pathetic hokey redneck
power-tripping
********
but lord no!
white knights
ride no gallant steeds
possess no magic
potions
have nothing
but a desperation
born of impotence
& sullen
bitter & imagined
loss.
white folks grandeur!
oh spare me so,
from evil
in its many disguises
& from very real
& dangerous men
hood-less
brazen
& right there
in front of us.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
My ancestors (i hesitate to even call them such)
came to this land centuries ago
they came with nothing
hoping to start a new life
but this is not about my proud heritage
not about immigrants following the
American Dream (Nightmare would be more accurate)
No
my ancestors
my White Anglo Saxon Protestant ancestors
descended upon this pristine landmass
like so many parasitic WASPs
injecting their prey (the people, the land) with venom
laying their eggs that would **** the hosts upon hatching
No
my ancestors
who helped perpetrate an ethnic cleansing
the likes of which 20th century fascists could only dream of
did so under the title of Manifest Destiny
divine right
their religion masking opportunistic genocide
No
my ancestors
laid the foundation
for the greatest country in the world
where ALL (White, English, Heteronormative, Cisnormative, Land-owning, Slave-Owning, Women Hating , Native-American-Murdering, Capitalistic, Perverted) MEN are created equal
No
my ancestors
partook in genocide
condoned slavery
oppressed women (and every other divergent identity)
destroyed the environment
and did so with such arrogance
such unheard of righteousness
No
my ancestors
were the lifeblood of America
the lifeblood of oppression
and that blood runs through my veins
the screams of American-Indian Warriors
of African Slaves
of Women labeled Witches and Gays and People of Color and anyone who opposed the hideous behemoth, anyone who dared to be different
their screams echo in my head
and i am ashamed
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies
NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs
from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead
YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping
through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
from an **** of incessant bloodletting
twitter records desperate tweets
the batting wings of endangered flocks
furiously thumbing into the blogosphere
calls for UN intervention that falls on blind eyes
BBC reportage,
the global gold standard
for journalistic excellence
scoops the stories
of London based FSA partisans
awaiting repatriation to scatter
Bashar’s Kodachrome killers
Has the All Seeing Eye
who has graced us with sight
laughingly curse us with vision?
Does the
One Caring Eye of the Universe
bless us with perception
to haunt us with images?
Has
The One Thats Sees Everything
blinked closed the eye of compassion?
Has the horror of Homs
become too much even for
The Universal Eye of Love?
the opened eyes
of a dead child
reflects our
cold winter
of indifference
demoralizing
dehumanizing
a watching world
Music Selection
Grateful Dead Eyes of the World
Oakland
3/2/12
jbm
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
I'm tired of this atmosphere
I'm tired of its people
I'm tired of the traps
And stones being thrown
I'm tired of non bending
I'm tired of the breaking
I'm tired of the liars
Too many to count
I'm tired of the fascists
I'm tired of the Nazis
I'm tired of the racists
With fingers that point
I'm tired of the guilt
That comes with the pleasure
I'm tired of them telling me
They will but they don't
I'm tired of the powers
I'm tired of excuses
I'm tired of the pressure
Being under their thumb
I'm tired of the yelling
I'm tired of impatience
I'm tired of the hate
In the name of love
I'm tired of those sitting
I'm tired of not standing
And those being silent
I'm tired of it all
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 4:23 PM UTC
impassioned fascists lash facts
together working to bash
brash young activists
envisioning a lasting planet
****** Janet
congress loves the Jews
and the blues of today
means we’ve all flown
over nests impressed
with obese flying flesh..
resting festival goers flow
over Bohemian Grove
with row boats toting
goat cheese
and if it please the court
I will bring back Bermuda Shorts
and with elegant reports on contortionist’s
abortion risks and whisk farm fresh eggs
with Barbie Doll legs in May
under the sway of a fine cognac
Black light heart attack on the first night
after the fourth Blood Moon
bring gloom to the tomb of the unknown
soldier, whose older brother
drank Folders crystals whilst *******
about the listless whisperers
still recklessly wishing for some
environmental recognition or maybe
a shift in the disposition
towards deep sea net fishing
and phishing scammers flooding servers
in service of the undeserving
reservationists……..
native brethren living together in
harmonious balance
with the nature around us
astounds me
and if’n we could only see
that, peacefully
we could be free….
is it only a dream to me
as if Frank and I
were going home,
together –
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
you need not be looking / looked upon so aloft with the music, of course it's dramatic settling the heart to a frenzy - less happily endorsed feet dancing, alt. Jews in Europe rather than Muslims in a similar state of geographic - they call all appreciators of classical music fascists these days, it doesn't matter.... what matters is that the heart once danced, and the feet were wheelchair bound - but now the heart is wheelchair bound, crippled... and the feet dance, indeed, a dance of fiddled thumbs of a confused coliseum spectacle awaiting Caesar's nod.
~48 hours away from seeing Nabucco
at the Royal Opera House;
i better get drunk before the opera,
so that i might cry at
the chorus of the Hebrew slaves -
gold-digger of tears at my christening;
that old hummingbird;
take a Scotch pouch of whiskey into
the toilet for a one-two impromptu
and a nutmeg past the goalkeeper -
whatever high European culture professes,
the countryside alliance will always
make peasants of us all.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
god you self-righteous, idealistic ****
I don’t like your old poetry
it all feels too cheesey— and it’s overly emotional
write something fresh, publish something better
get the anger out (you can’t bottle it up)
if you’re going to explode then do it through a pen
or at least, leave yourself out of it
there’s so much wrong in this world
write about that
I know you have at least 10 poems
angry, political ones
just sitting in your notes app
waiting to be jolted to life
pull the lever, Dr. Frankenstein
This Monster Kills Fascists.
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 10:52 PM UTC
I feel unsafe now, even though I'm not
in that place. He really does trump them all,
doesn't he - the bigots and fascists,
homophobes and racists alike. He is
going to lead them and unite his country
in hatred against us. We are becoming
afraid again, the lost and the ostracised,
so we will hide from the people who will
reverse our progression into the light and
lock us in the darkness of a conservative
world. But it will not be enough. They will
find us, they will shame us and they will neglect
us, sending us back to the fear and danger
of being free. They will tear our wings from
our backs and leave us to die, bloodied and
trampled, in the dust that is settling
on our "freedom".
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 3:32 AM UTC
we have been deceived.
corralled like tepid sheep,
fattened beef
waiting beyond
the doors of the slaughterhouse.
as pigs lick their lips,
a daemon’s death dirge drifts
listless across the
Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy
corroding rationality—
this executive edict
barring refugees.
caught without a compass,
a flotilla of ships weathering
the elements.
for forty days
and forty nights,
we’ve been lead
two-by-two
by elephants
and donkeys.
demagogues commandeered
the lighthouse, directing
our ark across
scattered rocks.
an armada
of shattered splinters,
remnants of water-logged vessels
we’d hoped to sail to utopia.
caught in the webs
we wove, droves
of drones spewing
bombs across Aleppo.
as spittle collects
on spluttering orange lips,
will we
pause
for but a moment?
collect
our thoughts.
reflect.
history is a shattered
mirror and we’ve pricked
our fingers trying
to piece the image
back together.
there’s a hunger
for blood
refracting in our eyes.
a misanthropy
that smarts and stings.
a recalcitrant population
coerced by a television
rhetorician’s clever
devices, devised
to separate and segregate
during this crisis
caused by our missiles.
there is no moral arc
to the universe. hope,
Hedges wrote, is mania
if it remains vapid
and refuses to address
the depravity of our
physical reality.
we’ve already lost.
just ask the children
barely clinging to life,
covered in the debris
of their former homes.
all that’s left for us
is to bash the fascists.
smash every illusory border
in our heads and hearts.
burn down the walls
they try to build
around us.
overturn the tables
of the oligarchs,
stuff Molotov cocktails
down their bloated throats.
open revolt is our only hope.
we’ll build a sanctuary
in this City Beautiful.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
Seraphine wields her dagger like a torch
to illuminate her path—a figure at once
youthful and monolithic. Mother Earth
caresses her as flowers bloom amidst
the bloodbath. the old skulls of dead
fascists rest in silver platters. three arrows
plunged into the hearts of charlatans,
an Iron Front, disrupting decorum.
the celosia petals burn like a bonfire
around Seraphine as her nāgī coils
like an ouroboros, slyly smirking.
Seraphine works the blade back and forth,
sawing through the Nazi's neck, smiling
while decapitating the demagogue.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC