"guerrilla" poems
The Equalist!
RE: The guerrilla girl’s poster 5% women artists yet 85% of the models are female.
This poster was heralded as a feminist rebuff of misogyny and the male gaze.
It is my opinion: one of the reasons females are more sexualised than males in Western society; is because the majority of women working in a sexualised industry such as modelling, dancing, fashion or *********** choose to perpetuate that role and the connection between *** and femininity; often in industries where females outnumber the men six to one; I'm also aware that the majority of the hierarchy in theses industries are male, it seems their gender solidarity is more concerned with the money; than notions of ****** inequality; thus perpetuating the issue.
Vernacular test:
Step one - Question one:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misandry? followed by what is your gender?
Step two - Question two:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misogyny? followed by what is your gender?
I did offer any information or allow any of the subjects to see the survey paper, or overhear the question.
Results: 30 subjects took part in the survey; One female knew both words and their meaning, and one female didn't know what Misogyny was. (Two females approached refused to take part in the survey, all men approached engaged.)
Step three - Question three:
I then gave all the subjects the dictionary definition and asked why they thought the vernacular misandry is not as well known as the word misogyny?
(I should add that I too couldn't recall the vernacular meaning of: Misandry; though I could recall the meaning or definition of Misogyny.)
Answers:
Female... "I don't care"
Female... "It's due to a gender economic imbalance"
Female..."Blokes just don't like it when women speak out about it"
Female..."I don't get involved in protests"
Female..."I don't know"
Female..."Men just think with their ******
Female... "There's more misogynists"
Female... "Because men are pigs"
Female... "Why does it mater"
Female... "It's just a word"
Female... "I'm not interested"
Female..."Try being a women"
Female... " It's ******** it's just a vernacular"
Female..."You wouldn't understand your a man"
The other 5 Females... chose to offer no explanation.
Answers:
Male..."I don't know"
Male... "who cares"
Male... "Yeh that's interesting"
Male... Why does it matter"
Male... "Let me think about it"
Male... "Who gives a ****
Male... "What's this about"
Male... "Can I see the results later"
The other 2 males... Chose to offer no explanation.
I personally identify as human; and don't wish to be defined, labeled or marginalised; I also don’t believe that secularism in any measure is healthy or meaningful in an inclusive society.
I question why 29 out of 30 subjects had heard of Misogyny; and just one person had heard of Misandry.
Sexism is not as the dictionary suggested prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women.
Everyone is effected buy prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination.
The subtleties of which is played out every day.
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
***"Watching The Wheels" - John Lennon
People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing,
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin,
When I say that I'm o.k. they look at me kind of strange,
Surely your not happy now you no longer play the game,
People say I'm lazy dreaming my life away,
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to enlighten me,
When I tell that I'm doing Fine watching shadows on the wall,
Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball?
I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,
I really love to watch them roll,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I just had to let it go,
People asking questions lost in confusion,
Well I tell them there's no problem,
Only solutions,
Well they shake their heads and they look at me as if I've lost my mind,
I tell them there's no hurry...
I'm just sitting here doing time,
I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,
I really love to watch them roll,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I just had to let it go.***
"Mind Games" - John Lennon
**We're playing those mind games together
Pushing the barriers, planting seeds
Playing the mind guerrilla
Chanting the mantra, peace on earth
We all been playing those mind games forever
Some kinda druid dudes lifting the veil
Doing the mind guerrilla
Some call it magic, the search for the grail**
**Love is the answer and you know that for sure
Love is a flower, you got to let it, you got to let it grow**
**So keep on playing those mind games together
Faith in the future, outta the now
You just can't beat on those mind guerrillas
Absolute elsewhere in the stones of your mind
Yeah we're playing those mind games forever
Projecting our images in space and in time**
**Yes is the answer and you know that for sure
Yes is surrender, you got to let it, you got to let it go**
**So keep on playing those mind games together
Doing the ritual dance in the sun
Millions of mind guerrillas
Putting their soul power to the karmic wheel
Keep on playing those mind games forever
Raising the spirit of peace and love**
***Love...
(I want you to make love, not war, I know you've heard it before)***
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
*where are women really safe?
how is it that society-collect FAILS
as humanity stumbles yet again.. and again?
our lady-folk are not safe*..
Amaya-bai finds little comfort but in sibilant-twin
as no eye of sun nor ginoo laid eye on this binukot
Olga is the silent-saint; believes in charity at home
yet chaos ensues too easily - she is wronged and just gets.. lost in the system
Zandile fetches precious amanzi in her sun-soaked calabash
her vigilant-sister falls.. roving guerrilla-men from the river's edge
Michelle, la petite belle, survives the daily-grind via low-coin
tubes to Champs-Élysées as assistante-de-pharmacie
Aadita, from the outset at 15, dons a veil hiding ****** acid-burns
she has some relative-luck to escape sati later on
Amy with downtrod-heart, grabs the tram to downtown family
wearing dark glasses and gloves on rainy-day blues
Emiko graced (yet cursed) with beauty struggles with ancient-practice
despite the ban, silent-suffering lotus-gait in the tiny village
Aisha may be alive but not well from ethnic-marking tragedy
as irugu are outcast from all-too prevalent gishiri-cruelty
*might as well take a trip to Vladivostok
or be dumped in a sarcophagus
beneath the Pyramids
safer there*
S T - 27 sept 2013 - freitag
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
This is to all those misfits
To the Romeo car-washing in Inglewood inlets
To the Hippy selling crystals on the Venice boardwalk
The Magician swallowing 8-balls at the Huntington Beach peer
The Rapper selling CDs in the Ranch Market parking lot
The **** tatting in a makeshift garage
The Poet slinging chapbooks at cafes and rec centers…
Not androids pontificating from lecterns
But grimy roots burrowing deep
Seismic rumblings toppling down
Insured ivory towers
Smashing pilled-paradigms beneath Docs
Hustling and slinging
In the forbidden outshacks of civilization
In tents, over barbed-wire, beside shards
Desperate and burning
For neither Truth or Beauty
But for LIFE
They do not tap wrists
No, they thump chests
To feel it beat
To feel it rage
For fugitive fugues
For new eternities
They embrace
********** romance
Graveyard necromance
The holy hunger for change
Defying commercials and charts
Shivering and howling on streets
Waging guerrilla war
Liberating cubicled-hearts
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
When you approached me,
I was smoking a cigarette
listening to Macklemore
outside my favorite coffeeshop
in the rainy city
You said something,
but I didn't hear you,
so I removed my headphones
as you asked
"Could you help a veteran out
by giving him a cigarette?"
I said yes,
asked you where you had fought
you told me Saigon
"Oh yeah? Vietnam."
you looked at me
dressed in a coat
that was a color of blue
not found in nature
face of canyons
and told me
"We got those ******* good.
We did.
We got those ******* good.
Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
and you walked away.
I was stuck in a trance of
What the **** was that
and yeah,
we did get them
but I don't know if I'd lay down
Agent Orange
and call it "good"
Take Civil and Guerrilla warfare
and try to tie it next to butterflies
and welfare checks
I don't know
what you think is good
But me?
I can't find any other words
for 1.9 to 3.9 million casualties
in a war that should never have been fought
Than sad
and wrong
I wonder how many Vietnamese women
gave birth to half American babies
That they never wanted
that didn't even desire to participate
in the act
of child making
I wonder how many
Loved their children anyway
how many were honest with them
how many of those children burnt that odd color of blue
that should never exist in nature
But then again
neither should the bombs children are still unearthing
in the North
and South of Vietnam
I want to know how many of their parents
learned that American
is another word for a ************
How many of these parents
grew up telling their children
never trust an American
until you know where his gun is pointed
because he's always got it pointing somewhere
I want to know
If you would understand
where Saigon, now ** Chi Minh city
is on a map
if you had never fought there
Would you be on the streets of Portland
alone
asking a college kid
who was not alive
when you fought in Southeast Asia
for a cigarette
I wonder where are you going?
How many people did you ****
how many are you sorry
for killing?
and then I realize I really don't want to know.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
.........as the sun just went for his nap, I woke up disturbed; in the middle of turmoils, on the edge of disasters.........
Even though I wanted to, I couldn't sleep; I couldn't cry out for company, for I had known long back that my words were weak...
There was some sleep in my eyes, some emptiness in my heart, and hunger in my soul...
The situation here was chaotic, people killing each other for the sake of some long lost freedom...
I wish I could turn back the clock,
and bring the wheels of time to a stop.
But time is obnoxious; then human lust for power,
and some frivolous ideologies about freedom,
make existence even more dangerous...
And when hope runs out, we become merely living dead creatures.... And such had the conditions worsened in this area, that all was lost...
Each night I slept without a single hope of seeing tomorrow's sunshine...
Each time I went out, I filled myself with the sight of my beloved ones, as if it is the final meeting with them...
So I couldn't find much difference between today and the other days....It seems like all was imprinted on me;
My birth, which brought me here;
My journey, which was neither much in favor,
nor much against my stable, yet conflicting mind;
and My end, which was too stubborn to accept me....
I was neglected by everyone, from everyone, and that's what solidified me...
"I hid my pains even from myself,
I revealed my pains only to myself..."
I was unaware of what I was headed to,
or whether I'd make it or not....that was unacceptable to all, I was unacceptable to all....
"My days are keeping on getting bad
My nights are keeping on getting worst,
I don't know the truths, just I guess I'm thirsty,
But unaware of what would quench my thirst..."
This area is a battlefield,
and my battle here is with the guerrilla force,
my battle here is with the terrorists....
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
Text her. Send her messages that she won't know how to respond to. she'll read them and put her phone down. Stare at the read receipt for hours until you realize she's not picking the phone back up, she doesn't have anything to say to you.
Eat lots of chocolate. It has serotonin in it, the happy chemical. When you cuddle with her, your brain releases oxytocin. As long as you eat enough chocolate (and throw it up) you won't miss the oxytocin one bit.
Bleed. When she tells you that she cuts herself, cut deeper. This is guerrilla warfare now, and for every shot fired you must fire back.
Read your messages. Laugh at the nicknames she used. "Princess". "Baby". "Darlin". You were never her princess, never her baby. She was the child and you were merely her plaything.
Make art. Write dumb poetry about falling in and out of love, take photographs of your ****** thighs, paint a picture using only shades of red. Let her figure out what all these things mean.
Drink. Green tea, ***** over-priced lattes. Stay up all night crying. Wear stilettos. Sit in art museums all alone and wonder if being a starving artist is as much fun as it sounds. Take long showers and harmonize with your favorite songs through your tears. Use heavier, blacker eyeliner. Spend time on yourself. Adopt a cat. But most of all, remember this:
You can only love one person. Choose yourself
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
the wind whispers to you in furious ways,
ominous notes, like a dusty violin
stenciling finality into the air.
the percussion
of foot-soldiers trembles the grass.
you have grown, my war-child,
from the days of ****** tea parties
to a diva guerrilla,
terrible and well-rehearsed,
your bulleted libretto close to your chest--
and as trumpets sound in the offing,
the curtain draws back.
AK-47, pizzicato--
gasoline breeds fire, incinerates woodwinds,
the wine of the coloratura soprano
melts into blood.
witch, ***** daughter of gunpowder,
bella contralto, your
deep and tremulous vibrato is a
grenade,
and as death crashes to a crescendo,
mortality in the tin frequency of cymbals--
the only armistice
is annihilation.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Destination delayed, off course.
Life is a city bus. For some, at least. On schedule, same route,
Never a trip. Strange people sleeping next to you, the creepy man in a
Trench coat that always stands up.
And the smell of ***** from the child sitting alone, a tired look on their face
Before they realize their mother already got off.
They are an orphan now. Wandering between places that they are supposed to think
Of as family.
The attitude kicks in, drugs and suicide,
Soon it will all end. Abducted by demons left as inheritance, her mother was a *****
Time to accept her legacy,
Escape from what she has dealt with and run, a savage salve now,
New York **********
The city bus she started in has crashed,
Off course and alone. She has no path. She writes poetry to keep herself sane.
She isn't really a ***** She releases about them.
Really, she lives on the streets, robbing from book stores and using old chalk from
Abandoned garages to paint her emotions.
Guerrilla artist, known by many, but not known at all.
Shaved her hair off and dressed as a man, cheaper than the designer ****
That is expected of women.
I blame the city bus.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
Eyes cast down I see the flaws,
All of mine, all of yours.
Stains; I wipe away at them daily,
Guerrilla janitor,
They don't pay me
But they pain me.
So what if I strive for perfection?
mop or mope away,
squeeze out the infection,
but its a fiction
the clean slate don't exist
when you work in the permanent
they'll be no ExtINKtion.
So I guess I'll take the flaws,
All of mine, all of yours.
Clear some flaw space as
I take the floor
Make my acceptance speech
And explore
this imperfect notion.
Pry back the boards
and discover that
They keep us grounded and
In their absence
We wouldn't be who we are.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
1991
I realized
We were both born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys fed
by Arabia's oil.
Eyes closed,
ears behest
to broadcasts, we,
could NOT protest.
That was the beginning
of our mass destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly,
thanking our stars,
proud to be Americans.
10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
Until grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on our side exploded.
The imminent threat preloaded,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.
The broadcast — our center
was the theorem
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone's freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, teachers said
hail red, blue,
and especially white.
We forgot our roots,
because the Ellis Island trip
was obviously cancelled.
So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government
and ****** Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Saddam Insane.
Our flag revealed
a sham feeding flames,
angst-ridden
teenagers
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
**** Amuricans.
Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation's youth.
Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a guerrilla war
fought in vain!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
JUST STOP!
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!
…
So the broadcast said recently:
We are losing control
of the Middle East. And
Al-Qaeda is far from weak —
ISIS: THE PHOENIX OF HUMAN GREED,
We just turned off our TV's
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
civilization
built on hate.
And when you tell me, ***
"We were both born in 1991,"
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
They protested war in the sixties
Today we occupy the 1% and their wealth
Times haven’t changed in accordance with public opinion
But the police state has grown more authoritative
Media output is under corporate thumbs
Social media is a lie proportioned from mass de-intellect
Intellectualize the comeback of systematic rational thought
Distraction of disaster is distasteful destruction
Defined, refined, combined, combed in
A darkened bomb shelter to hide in
The enemy ambushed in guerrilla warfare
Has the benefit of never seeing the enemy coming
Taken to the streets in prolific protest
Condemning the condemnation of a capitalist nation
It’s party time to destroy the two-party system
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 9:41 AM UTC
Iodine damnation cleanses Alice--rock-and-roll medusa
alone in the field,
she waits for the flies to eat the spider
--the third testament of law
divinely christened as low as $19.95.
Hell is where
Schrodinger throws the bodies. Revived Alice is in a burlap sack
embedded in the cubbyhole
of a mortal anthro-rubix,
the small garnishes that spot livers during cancer.
"Hello and welcome
to the resting place of all Blues songs."
speaks the curbed lips of Gluttony. A name that vomits
up rebellion, like cleansing the glucose off
fish-cleaning tables.
Alice touches her eyes rolls them
--fortunate galleries,
broods deeply on the jaws of her receptors.
"After the last drop, the hard boiled spoil
and the cats won't eat 'em. Neither will I," Gluttony spews, "You all show up
as do I, magnifying the cruelty of digging,
digging,
digging
that follows me and you to the bitter stem
and rough petal--throwing this rose,
that rose,
here and there inside the carcass of lust.
The scalding photograph of a guerrilla war playground
hangs over
the mantle of a prideful garden.
"Pulp wisdom
looking back at the names of thieves/murderers
of simple thought
over-turning scars of fallacy
in that garden.
"Picking,
picking,
picking out the best arrangement
so it doesn't look like I went
through a drive-thru
for what to say. 'Hey.'
'Yes?'
'I love you.'
'You too.'
Something in between
what you, I, and the others were looking for
has uprooted bushes--the tilled chest of my sister
and lover--disarrayed, dirt thrown
to the side.
Fibonacci colors patterned
across the moist earth
to distract you and I, all from the dread, and all
the relief
of ripping apart the white, pink, black, and red."
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
while the young kids
burn their lips on
unfiltered cigarettes
and the poets
are distracted,
i'm kneeling in an alley
flushed with desire
clutching your number on a napkin.
while the children
and the saints
are crying in dysentery
behind guerrilla masks and guns
i'm imagining the flesh of your stomach
folded over the length of my thigh
and the roar of a volcano
in your heart.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
the Ethiopian woman
shunned
for pulling rope
from between
her legs
in a manner
suggesting
the rope
has a beginning…
whose dead newborn
has the attention span
of the sadness
we register
as patience
in the guerrilla museums
of health
we are apt
to attend
on the backs
of men
who smoke
during
so they can chat
after
the cesarean.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
I've heard it goes, "all is fair in love and war"
I'm not sure I agree
When localities become marginalized
Despite the lack of knowledge
That guerrilla warfare comes in waves
Like crashing tides against foreign beaches
The ones I've never seen
I'm not sure if he'll lose his life
Upon his first deployment
But there isn't much to lose when you've already sold your soul
Can you enlist half a person?
If that were the case, I'd sign up too
And **** the only part of me
That's still in love with you
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
it's really something
how quickly things can change
how one poem ago
you were back
in my bed
in my heart
how one poem ago
you accidentally called me honey
in the middle
of a flirtatious conversation
and every time after that
was on purpose
if you ask me
there are no such thing
as accidents
I would tell you there is no
such thing
as coincidence
that you are only setting yourself
up
for failure
by choosing to believe
in miracles
if you asked me
I would tell you
a long time ago
many
many poems ago
I believed in love
at first sight
and
soul mates
and fate
but the truth is
these beliefs are built
on a quicksand foundation
of lust
and naivety
and sheer
stupidity
love
is the hardest part
of living
the deadliest war
to sign up for
your heart
is not a soldier
you
are not
a battleground
this love
is guerrilla warfare
that wink
this grin
those hands on my hips
these lips
on my neck
your breath
in my ear
my name
on your tongue
this
is
war
one poem ago
we were asleep
like lazy lovers
on a sunday afternoon
one poem ago
the sound of you
moaning my name
has seared itself
back into
my brain
one poem ago
I love you so
much that I say
I will never
let you go
and this morning
you are severing
your own arms
just to escape from
my grasp
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
Who are we if not the purveyors of justice
my rifle, my knife, these limbs.
Who are they if not the intruders of peace;
their terror, our lives, death looms.
I am hollowed: rebuilt and refilled.
My scarred face remembers what
I need not. Their faces and fear lie killed;
****** with mandate, bullet hole signature.
The trigger finger -
is not mine, it’s yours.
You **** guerrilla forces, burn
villages and conquer; linger and pause.
Teach them what you had us learn,
cut them from their cage,
and coax them to our ways.
They, purveyors of peace;
you, intruder, enforcing justice.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
Acaso él mismo fuera en parte responsable,
Por el afán de parecer un ángel, eterno adolescente,
De aquel diminuto familiar en exceso con el mozo,
De sabor desdeñoso para el hombre,
Con el cual en privado y en público llamaban
Unos y otros, amigos como extraños,
Con esas peculiares maneras españolas,
Al cincuentón obeso en que se convirtiera.
En el poeta la espiritual compleja maquinaria
De sutil precisión y exquisito manejo
Requiere entendimiento, y no tan sólo
En quienes al poeta se aproximan
Sino también en quien detenta a aquélla.
Mas él, siempre movido por el capricho irrazonable del infante,
No quiso, tal vez no supo manejarla,
Ayudando a los otros, contra él, en el desdén artero.
Porque en la cuenta debe entrar la idiosincrasia indígena
Que jamás admitiera cómo excelencia puede corresponder a
varios:
Su fanatismo antes mejor prospera si se concentra en la de uno.
Así tantos compadres del Poeta en Residencia,
Sin excluir, por su interés en la guerrilla, a éste,
Quisieron consignar al olvido su raro don poético,
Cuidando de ver en él tan sólo y nada más que a "Manolito"
Y callando al poeta admirable que en él hubo.
1.2k
Sleep on me like memory foam
never forget like September eleven
snow flurries are the forecast today
with a little bit of hopelessness
a new nasa study which I read on facebook suggests
that modern civilization will crumble upon itself within the next two decades
so the cold wind blows across the dusty plains
and the litter strewn streets rest easily like guerrilla militants
pay homage to the blazing skies
another day waiting for the bite to come
another day praying like mad men
the nostalgic characters we created are haunting us
we are all being called home
supper is getting cold
and we are all in need of a solid night’s sleep
before what is to come
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
Twist sound into verse
keep the frequency high
Vibrations will synchronize
and the new world will arise
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 1:24 PM UTC
I can see, in your sea
what I threw, went right through
your lack of class, so get to class
you flea, you flee
fear will show, fear the show
for busted acts, four battle ax
an eerie moan, an eerily mown
level plane, yet too plain
so start the rite, so start to write
your words to savor, you worried saver
and this I saw, and with this saw
cut to sear, seek the seer
a spirit pryed, an unleashed pride
giant gorilla, stealthy guerrilla
so send the pros, we speak in prose
you leave your prince, you leave your prints
simple minds racked, simply mind wracked
so slow your roll, know your role
kneel and pray, kneel you prey
you maid from Rome, you'remade to roam
with worn sole, with warn soul
spirit's cold, under coaled
start the fire, weapons fire
send the horde, send the ******
forget the gaffe, remember the gaff
speed for the gate, speed is the gait
if death feign, or if death fain
let you pass, or may you pass
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 5:56 PM UTC
after years of fending Mathematics,
hiding disastrous test papers as guerrilla tactics,
lolling in the shame of discovery,
followed by parents' sherlockian commentary,
how they came upon the dreaded documents, accidentally,
I thank the gods who gave writers nibs, quills, ink,
how their tales became shields,infused life in print,
these angelic saviours from Darth Vader menace,
famed rescuers from teacher disguised fiends,
dear, beloved school education, I forgive you all your sins...
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
Light a fire under your assmove boy, moveno time to catch your breaththe fires closing fastthe tree line approachingthe horizon line2 more hoursto the drop zonefreedom at lastto burnthe place downtorch all the animalsVengeance at lastThe small village scaredthey run for their livesno chance at survivalthe ****** blastskin blisters and peels awayscorched bodies fallthe smiles of the killersslowly fade awaynot a guerrilla outpost they thought it should bethe bodies writhingthe faces of the burningwill never leave their memories
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 1:35 PM UTC
it is not the tier of enmeshed leaves
nor the zither of green. none is their duty
to discover the lunar hook of moon.
— the old bamboo is the mistral
danseuse tonight.
whatever the etcetera
of it, whatever the birds demand from it.
a sling of breath is far-flung into the sky
announcing merriment before the child
beheads the tulip,
before the creature chokes the pistil,
before the light enters slow-churn
of synthesis.
hearing the giggling of bush in
the mire of wind, heaving in all kinds
of sleep, the children, the weather,
together; synapses drunk in translation
and we feel no longer the secret
of a guerrilla behind the foliage.
it is only the heraldry of the world
when the morning unclips its wing,
as monsoons continue their bushwhack
amongst petty citations.
past oceans gleaming and
away from hills dreaming — by the
river, dead of heart, riveting silence
of land, past the battered bridge in Marilao tracing deathlier waters,
all gone in recall, something
i scour to find only pining away from
scarcity of remember. it is never their
duty to bring back its image
to dance with me again.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC