"forestalls" poems
the invisible hand is in my pocket
pilfering everything
and there's nothing i can do
to stop it from robbing me blind
it does not guide it only destroys
personal expression under the
whims of an outmoded model of economics
capitalism
a philosophy that subscribes
to the metaphysical conclusion
that a spiritual malady
plagues every human heart
a harsh chorus that rings like a melody
of triumph in the multi-million dollar
mansions of the 1%
convinced we're born selfish
it seeks to reward us for our own malpractice
an edict predicated on social darwinism
that forestalls the possibility of future charity
as it drowns in the throes
of misanthropy and butchers any hope
of philanthropic community or basic humanity
to vanquish our more maleficent impulses
relegated to paying taxes
to ensure the illusion of security
while our money finances endless
war and police brutality rather than
healthcare or education
they know if they keep us sick and dumb
they can get away with ******
if the population shirks in horror
from the looming specter of terrorism
they can justify ubiquitous surveillance
that robs us of our right to
self-determination but
people should not be afraid of their governments
governments should be afraid of their people
they say we can't be trusted
that this is for our own good
but i'll call their bluff that
bull on Wall St. is full of ****
and like a matador i'll entice it to
lower its horns and charge
when itsjust a hairsbreadth away
i'll turn to one side and let it skewer
the slave-driver raising his whip behind me
that same skulking shadow that turns
veterans into homeless wanderers begging
for loose change in Central Park
a pale horse haunting the aspirations
of college students it
leaves the poor and
oppressed shivering after dark and
overburdens broken backs
god doesn't hold up the world
like Atlas we shoulder the globe
now watch us shift the weight
brought down by the people you tried to suppress
this is not some petty expression of vengeance
but the rallying cry of a dream deferred
exploding out to meet your injustice
mark my words
we're taking over the world
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
---
**the pleasure of the wealthy
advance of poor forestalls
and the "good taste" of the jaded
is no taste at all.**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/17/2016
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun.
Their lack of success in love has made them torpid.
They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather,
the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions.
Let us commend them on their conversations.
One says “oh” and the other says “indeed.”
The afternoon must be prolonged forever, because the night
will be impossible for them.
They know that the bright and very delicate needles
inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins
will work after dark--at present are drugged, are dormant.
Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance.
One says “no," the other one murmurs “why?”
The cousins pause: tumescent.
What do they dream of? ******
They dream of lust and they long for violent action
but none occurs.
Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum
The light is empty: the sun forestalls reflection.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
Love is like the rose
Beautiful, lush, fragrant
Yet forestalls it
Of being plucked
From the thorns
Of our own creation
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
If you cast truly, king fisher of men,
Show care with connection, rare, meaningful song;
Withered by loss, I cannot comprehend
Why seed should be made to stay only so long.
Feeling for reason, flowing stone divides,
Severing seasons of constant refrain.
Though I deem sep'rate the day from the night,
Singular cycles are all that remain.
O, to make matter, to spirit up beach,
Drawn by some beauty, so vibrantly graved!
Roaring, I'd grasp what's been kept beyond reach,
Breathing new life into what should be saved;
But presence of peace neither soothes nor forestalls
When what order brings must be destined to fall.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 7:09 PM UTC
Silent she remains
noise, sounds, buzz
absence claims,
she holds
Nothingness inside.
No future contained,
now here
in frame
prevails,
limitless, limiting life
she claims,
wordless world
lives in praise.
Disengagement, detachment, proclaims
present in vain
decision upright
she wonders in wander,
explorer great?
Fate weaves moments at will
fires flicker faint
firm foe entails
flame uncertain, peculiarly reigns
passes of fame.
World presses
models of pace
thorns born of pressure taint
her heart is torn
allegiance lame
obscure, insane
governs, forestalls
time quaint.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
I look back to the memory of one revered
and recognise belatedly that, as I feared,
with all such thoughts that are but refugees
from Life’s repugnant and loathsome disease
that is a chronic chronicle of cardinal regret,
the anguish is not prepared to leave me yet.
The pain enters the maelstrom of my mind
sufficiently, it would appear, to raise the blind
on life’s insidious theatrical disguise
that renders impotent such exercise.
The jack hammer’s incessant pounding in my brain
brings infinitesimally lesser pain;
whilst rotting matter that life does excrete
continues to mould pallid at my feet;
and I, the perpetrator of the piece,
anticipating the relief of a surcease,
must yet continue suffering the bitter blend
of redress that forestalls the dividend.
There is a situation that, when taken out of season,
evokes a painful memory for whatever reason.
A rainbow within a bubble of soap,
the search for trouble with a bronchoscope,
the desperate wish just to recuperate,
despairing hope that they will not reciprocate.
And when all else is but a heap of ash,
other than that consigned to a memory cache,
then it is time to place within that store
those ills from which recovery can be no more;
to tread a path and seek a blessed state
from which to be a learned advocate
of such as heaven and not the living hell
in which the guilt of conscience still does dwell.
Now count your dead, you others who survive
as bees continue to enjoy their nectar in a hive.
As animals may play, imprisoned in a cage,
As we creative writers persevere despite our age.
It is but propaganda to deceive
and not sufficiently authentic so as to believe
when Death, that great aggressor, determines to intrude
and interrupt the joy of an imperative good mood.
I’ve opened curtains and raised many blinds
and peeped into the crevices of minds.
And now it seems at last it’s all been said
There’ll be no further peeps, and so to bed.
.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC