"hammering" poems
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass
Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps
Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying
Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”
That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress
Some images just stay with you, ya know?
July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
Glassed with cold sleep and dazzled by the moon,
out of the confused hammering dark of the train
I looked and saw under the moon's cold sheet
your delicate dry ******* country that built my heart;
and the small trees on their uncoloured slope
like poetry moved, articulate and sharp
and purposeful under the great dry flight of air,
under the crosswise currents of wind and star.
Clench down your strength, box-tree and ironbark.
Break with your violent root the ****** rock.
Draw from the flying dark its breath of dew
till the unliving come to life in you.
Be over the blind rock a skin of sense,
under the barren height a slender dance...
I woke and saw the dark small trees that burn
suddenly into flowers more lovely that the white moon.
19.4k
With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....SHIT
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill
In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.
The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.
All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****
Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair
Oh, so there is a god.
I guess Jesus didn't lie.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
Spinning chairs, crashing
Dollars bills, in a G-string
Face hammering,
by sweaty sticky ***** cheeks
Plastic suitcases, held tightly
Chug your drink it's time to leave
Walk cautiously, drink powefully
Ting, ting, goes the machine
She winked at her, she pinched back
He said let's go
Their room opening
Laying, the mysterious women on the bed
He grabbed her hips
His wife watched, caressing her ****
Door goes cold
Sun shining brightly
Eyes being punctured into gaping holes
Cheesy over done smile, stepping into the livingroom floor
Perfect outstanding family
Morally hidden, detrimental corrupting
Their professional suits, look so clean
Appearance is everything
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
buzzzzzzz
The bus engine idles
Intensifying the hammering of little gnomes
On my skull
Their tin mallets **** dinking* incessantly
Throbbing
Painful numb as waves crash to escape
The confines of my head
A small clownfish throwing his tiny body
Against the walls again
And again
And again
ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump
The bus hits three large bumps in a row
Jostling and jolting me into excruciating confusion
So tired and so alert
Drifting off to consciousness
I have got to escape this headache...
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
There's an item that's truly essential
Of a roughly cylindrical frame
It's a marvel of modern invention
And a legend it duly became
It surpasses the birth of electric
And eclipses the slicing of bread
If it wasn't for this innovation
Then I think I would surely be dead
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Stick with me
Fix my wardrobe
Effortlessly
Hold up the curtains
Wax my thighs
Gaffer-tape Gaffer-tape
Improvise
It's useful for picking up hamsters
And it serves as a passable tie
As a gag for a amateur gangster
Or the crust of a blueberry pie
For a mite of podiatry pleasure
You can use it for mending your socks
If Pandora had come up against it
Then she'd never have opened her box
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Holding fast
Adhesive savior
Unsurpassed
Smooth as mirror glass
Diamond tough
Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Marvelous stuff
It's bringing our nations together
And it's holding them firmly in place
You can use it to pull back your wrinkles
For a genuine Hollywood face
It'd surely have saved the Titanic
And they took seven rolls to the moon
Keep it near and be calm in a crisis
And predicaments inopportune
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Mending sails
If you're tired
Of hammering nails
Buy some now
It's a thing to behold
Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Solid gold
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Shadows on the wall
Leather puppet laughter
seeping through the ground
Javanese man long buried
is uncovered by the puppet dance
The hammering sounds
of the gamelon orchestra
move like vapors through the blood
vipers through the ground
Shadows on the wall
Our shadows
like puppets
we are watched
The darkness hides the real figures
We see the shadows
only our shadows
Dancing on the wall
The audience laughs
from the wall
We see ourselves sitting
The wall is everywhere
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.
It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.
The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.
I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.
And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?
Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -
Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron
Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform
And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
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I once had a lover that on the most ordinary of days
Out shopping for underwear
Looked at my reflection in the mirror and said
I love the boy in you
And I love the girl in you
And everything in between
Later they asked me what love is
And I said I think that's what love is
Seeing everything in between the reflection
Seeing somebody clearer than they see themselves
I said tell Me you love every piece of me
The skin I shed
The skin that hates this chest
The “it's a boy” they never said
The “I love yous” they never meant
I've spent so much time trying to find the in between where there's no haircuts
Or funny ways of dressing
Or anything confusing about my chest
I'll just keep choosing to ignore the way they say
You're so beautiful
In the same breath as potential
As if it's a credential for my anatomy
Instead tell me I'm the cutest boy you've ever had in your bed
Tell me my body isn't woman it's just the wild
Tell me flesh is nothing
I'm made of light
Tell me my light is beautiful
Touch my soft
Touch my belly button but not like they ever touched me
Touch me like I'm the kind of soft that can turn hard
A tin roof against the rain
Beating a thunderstorms refrain into music
They told me I have too much bark
Too much bite
I'm too pretty to fight
So tell me instead I'm the softest pebble you've ever skipped across your body
And ripples are born of my feathered fists and my hammering heart
Tell me softness has no gender
Tell me our body's never knew what gender meant
I want to be gender bent over till it breaks
And takes the freighttrain words of haters
But don't you cringe under the jagged teeth of their stares
**** my love into your body and hold it there
Always write a poem in my body
And use the words they spit at us
But instead infuse them with a welcome song to tell my body it's found home
Everything we do rhymes with ****** rhymes with **** rhymes with queer
These labels belong to us
The fear in these labels does not belong to us
I'm here to witness you try to live in a body you call home without trying to run away
I wish my body was made of clay so I could fit it into the box labeled
“I love you no matter what”
Will you love me no matter what
If I want you to bend me over backwards until I break the reflection the mirror tries to make of me
And find it's just glass
Like my see through skin
Try to see through my skin
Tell me you see me
I'll see every piece of you
Soft
Hard
Apart
Together
Girl
Boy
But never in a box
I'll take that box labeled “I'll love you no matter what” and I'll break it down
Leave that truth around your bones
Until you believe it can't break
That truth will be our home and we can live in that between because that's where love is.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
Seeing you first thing in the morning is like looking through a kaleidoscope.
I cant really tell what I'm looking at because my vision is so blurry, but-my god is it beautiful.
I don't get to wake up to you as often as I'd like.
But when I do, I look to my left, or to my right-
depending on how much shifting I've done in the middle of the night-
and I say..
"Oh goodness, this pillow looks like her."
But then I realize that it is you.
I had just forgotten where I am because waking up to you is so abnormal.
Then-
What comes next is the wave of nerves,
and I mean WAVE OF NERVES-
that comes over me when you purse your lips-
trying not to smile back at me.
I can't help-
but to throw at you,
an endless string of generic compliments-
like-
"You are, so beautiful"
Or-
"You look so good without makeup"
But they aren't generic to me-
Because they are true.
But then I say something really ******* stupid.
Like-
"Your nails....... feel like.. nails"
Ironically-
Nails, is a word with a couple different meanings.
Like-
Fingernails.
Hammer and nails.
And like how I just nailed you.
But hey-
I put just as much time nailing you, as a man would, hammering nails into the beams of a house that he is building for his own family.
Not that you took a really long time-
Or I want to put a family inside you-
But-
You are a masterpiece.
What I'm trying to say,
Is that aside from your brilliant mental composure-
Your thousands of beautiful blurry reflective faces-
And your superb taste in men-
Example being me...
You are wonderful,
And I look forward to building more houses with you in the future.
We could have a castle with a mote.
We can have a pet dragon.
As long as I have light-
And a thousand busted mirrors in a tube-
I will be yours.
Even if the kaleidoscope doesn't see that far.
I will be yours.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
The fans rattling again.
It's not the only thing shaking in the darkness.
But it's making such a loud racket.
I keep it on anyway.
I'm afraid the silence will **** me.
I fight sleep like it's tangible.
You're always waiting there.
Just past consciousness,
standing in the shadows.
It's always the same.
Your backs to me and it will stay that way.
We're standing in a light rain,
the sun just faded.
I know every second that's about to happen,
yet every time it's like a new cut, over and over.
I say all the same words.
I say all different ones.
It never matters.
This story has unfolded a thousand times.
But it's different every time.
Sometimes I chase you.
Sometimes I scream.
Sometimes I beg. And curse.
Sometimes it's you instead.
You won't look at me
because hope is a deadly thing to give.
You know I'll always tell myself its there.
We all see what we want.
Especially when we don't want what we see.
Back in the dream, it's coming.
The part that will sit in the bottom of my soul.
Gathering weight, gathering dust.
You're in front of me,
but you couldn't be further away.
I'm on my knees.
A promise on my lips.
A disaster in my heart.
You step away.
One step, two, four.
Someone has been hammering my chest.
I'm awake.
Stuttered whirs of a broken fan.
The long length of the night stretched out in front of me.
It's only been an hour.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
Black spiderweb lashes
Drifting down
Red hashed vessels
Hidden from crowds
Pulsing lights
Heartbeat sounds
Arms and soul moving
Rhythm that pounds
Hands are grabbing
Wanting more
The soul says free me
Let me soar
It's about the beat
The ups and the downs
Feel the music
Hear the sound
Not just the sound
The hammering beat
The vibrating floor
The people heat
The sweat
The pain
The tears
The rain
The heat, hot liquid
Dripping through veins
New life given
To soulless names
Nameless faces
Passing through crowds
The beat is all that matters now
The beat, the heat. The bounce, the crowd
They all become one, somehow
You grind, you bend, you sit, you stand
You run the heat
Then you die with the band
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
Walls and gates kept her away
from what she needed
but didn't want
Beds of white cotton
submerged in what she
thought she didn't feel
Dusty pens in a dusty cup
on a dusty desk
She hammered at armor
that she had been hammering at
for years
since she was a young child
binding the pieces but
secretly
looking for cracks
to break out of
Kicking *** and taking names
but throwing the names away
Ripping keys out of the
typewriter
Every fifth letter
scratched into porcelain skin
Soap stripping her of what
made her normal
But there is no normal
She was still abnormal
Trying to open herself
to let the oxygen-free blood
stain her outline
so she could be seen
for a moment
Just one moment
and then get erased by
everyone
else
like always
She wanted to fly and shine
but there were others already
shining
and flying
Sun flashing and illuminating her
skeleton
Her skin transparent while lit
by the sun
Her heartbeat
skipped
and
stopped
and faltered
She tried to lose herself in everything she could
You could say she was selfish
but
you could say she just wanted to
be found, though,
by the right person
There is no right person
because anyone can break a shell
but nobody cares enough
to see what kind
of radiance
will light up the
universe
Nobody cares
that with every
single word
she is thrown
through windshields
Shards of glass
scathing her
inside
and
out
Drowning in pristine lakes
of beautiful love and
joy
How painful to not be able
to inhale
while drowning in
pristine lakes of lovely happiness
She could feel the
currents rushing past her fingers
but couldnt hold on
But she wanted to
She wanted to
hold
on
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC
Eros
In my soul
Taking my breath
Thrumming in my heart
Eros
In your touch
The flitting-fondness of skin to skin
Sweat, beaded-trickle down
Salted flesh
Curly topped, flayed on satin
Eros
In your taste
The sweet tangle of tongue
Twisted-cheeky
Raspberried laughter
Eros
In the presence of your wit
The clever-confines of your mind
Depressed-displacement of your thought
Sophia
Eros
From one being to another
Thundering
Chaotic in my breast
Burning my throat
Scalding-stinging
Across the distance
Eros
In the silence of contentment
With arms wrapped
Smooth
Held close to the rhythm of your light
The hammering of blood
Pacing
Pitter
Patter
Sluggish-slowing
Lull of sleep
Eros, even in my dreams
Σε στιγμές σαν και αυτές που φέρνουν μου όλου του κόσμου για να γονατίσει
(In moments like these you bring my whole world to its knees.)
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
for logic to work, certain coordination words must be excluded from ever attain a thesaurus privilege, certain words must attain the same consistency as numbers already present, for worded logic to work, certain words cannot entertain synonyms or antonyms, and must be freed from the shackles of sophistry.
can one animate object truly objectify another
animate object?
i ask, because this supposed feminist
narrative of man objectifying a woman
seems rather bogus -
as i have to reiterate -
can an animate object truly objectify
another animate object?
i "think" (i.e. "i" deny) this to be
highly unlikely, near impossible...
i am innately inclined to the puritanical
observation,
that i can only objectify an inanimate object,
point being: a man can no more
objectify a woman than an animate
object can make an animate an inanimate
object without having to subject himself
to hammering a nail into a plank of wood:
using a hammer.
how can an animate object (a man)
objectify another animate object (a woman) -
without, first of all objectifying a part of him
as quasi-inanimate, namely his phallus?
women do not seem to be complaining
about objectification of a woman,
rather, a man objectifying his member -
and isn't that the point, to posses an object
that you're not subject to obeying?
once more how can a woman
be objectified, when in fact man is
attempting to de-subjective himself from
his genitalia?
an animate object can't
objectify an animate object -
since the contradiction is:
both are in animation...
the only time objectification
happens is when an animate object
subject an inanimate object into a purpose...
a hammer is hardly a woman,
while is hammer one-dimensional,
a woman is either mother, sister, vice,
a one night stand, a girlfriend, or a wife...
women are never objectified -
they are subject to the self-objectifiction
of man, by man alone...
and if you think that's post-modernist jargon,
let me spell it out for you:
T, O, G, E, T, A, H, A, R, D, O, N.
objectification happens when an animate
object subjects / encompasses an inanimate
object into a subject of the animate object's
intent...
unless of course you care to disclose
a fetish for necrophilia...
since only in necrophilia are women actually
objectified.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
My last neighbours made no noise at all
never knew they were there.
But they passed away completely quiet
nothing to disturb me.
It did not last a new neighbour arrived
my tranquillity deprived!
At first not much sound came from next door
hoping it would quieten down.
Then louder noises emanated in the wall
hammering sounds too.
Worried I knocked their door to complain
from anger I tried to refrain!
Never a reply but a lot of vehicles came after dark
many arrived and went.
Few if any ever during those daylight hours
when black curtains were shut.
A nasty smell started to make me feel ill
something burnt on a grill!
I hadn't believed in vampires until the neighbour
moved in next door!
From then on my windows stayed tightly shut
who would believe me?
No animals came near which was a good thing
but what would the future bring?
The noises got worse even afraid to sleep
an atmosphere so grim!
In the end I had to leave while I could
as people began to disappear!
I knew what my neighbour was next to me
but would they let me be?
For a long time after I saw bats above my head
was it my neighbour one of the undead?
The Foureyed Poet.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
Winding down the alleyways,
Climbing up the walls,
Delivering their urgent schemes,
Yelling down the halls,
Hammering on all the drums,
And pounding on the gongs,
Calling out my burning thrums,
And writing all my songs,
Small things- all things,
These cause my ways.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
You look at the sky.
You see a vast open mirage cascaded in a warm royal blanket,
with silver clouds that linger above your every thought.
I see something different.
I see a beautiful visual distinction of everyone's plausible possibilities.
The single flap of a budding bird, taking off into life's flight.
The sensational physical reaction of a rain droplet exuberating onto skin.
A natural epiphany.
The unyielding bolts of light hammering from up above,
turning specks of sand into timeless memories.
I see a never ending scape of clarity.
An omnipotent place of livability that stretches to the heavens,
just a piece of what might be in store.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
a memory
yes
but after
yes
atomic foreskins
pink and fresh
yes
but no
no dream rocoque
no krupp haloes
no religious artifacts
made of lampshade skin
beneath
a million kilowatt moon
no anticipating geometry
the smell of soap
nor calling into question
human sexuality
without flesh
nor the vibration of blood
that angry lobe
hammering overhead
that echo bite
again
and again
clenched
no teeth
no Hiroshima
no again again
black graveyard womb
milk-glass lit
bandaged echo
**** him **** them
familiar bell music
**** them all (with)
2.9k
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
Suddenly it stops raining:
The woodpecker doesn’t mind,
he keeps on hammering lofts –
he’s kind of loopy. That’s his nature.
And that’s his beauty.
The poet doesn’t stop hammering
on his keyboard, always looking for
meaning, nonsense and love-at-first-write.
He’s kind of loopy too.
Shall we call him paperpecker?
That’s his nature. And that’s his beauty.
And the paper starts revealing all kind of things:
Bulls in china shops, bilingual pixies,
and look! – on the left a cancerous person
even finds lucky clover –
1up! if this were a video-game,
but life has more than three dimensions.
Hmmm… Let’s put some tea-lights
and drift-bottles into puddles.
Someone definitely will smile and reply.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
Should Andromeda collapse / Hammering hydrogen entraps
Cresting waves of burnished light / Whitecaps in the endless night
Fly apart with gentle violence / Into eternity of silence
Jun 19, 2023
Jun 19, 2023 at 5:04 AM UTC
man leisured by the least obliging functioning
of what he terms “proper” manual endeavours of the biceps
will clearly resolve the matter being his last adventure that’s consumerism,
creating as many menial jobs as possible without the freedom
to enjoy hardish and the elements;
but of course man’s life will become easier,
but his adventure seeking will
simply become a zoology, a safari,
a safety netting - consumerism is hardly
an adventure, it’s a bicycle schematic:
one wheel produces, another wheel consumes;
most of the jobs under the hammer
were not menial, they became menial
only when heidegger’s hammer was involved
and the rebellion came when hammering nails
in turned into discussing philosophy;
it’s hard to commence an emergence of philosophy
window shopping, woman’s new kitchen area:
you know how many marriages i have seen fail
because of over-cooked pasta? too many.
you know how many glass houses i’ve seen constructed
by women peering into shop windows at mannequins?
too many. i sometimes think about sartre’s c.c.t.v. voyeurism
pervasive in english society alongside paedophilia,
and i guess the jigsaw parts fit... they do;
once dubbed the nation of shopkeepers,
now dubbed the nation of integrally ~foreign mortgage lenders
(nation of property developers / landlords... indeed,
once a nation of shopkeepers, now a nation of landlords):
or a nation re-evaluating communism
by importing slavs to talk of the ups and lows of communism
by trying to curb capitalistic egoism and turn it into a collective
without communism’s egoism father stalin:
or queen bee or queen ant china.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Once a smile, now a frown.
Once a city, now burned down.
Excite yourself, have a visit,
Paradise awaits you, it’s quite unfit.
Lies, hate and treasures untold.
Wait, you haven’t begun to see it unfold.
The magic, the glory, the hammering sound,
All being heard from under this ground.
Silence and mockery at the final gate,
Once you enter, your soul disintegrates.
Trapped forever, unlike any other dimension,
You’re gone, it’s not just a suspension.
The world you once knew,
Will finally wish you adieu.
You can now be in peace, and wish your lucky seven;
Here in my hell demented version of heaven.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC