"imperialists" poems
~
I.
*Killing Mary Poppins
with a spoonful of sugar,
the sugar from the medicine
on the other side of town,
the town called Silent Hedges
And A Bit Of Fluff.*
II.
*Only a display model,
her name is Marmalade;
skin white like the moon,
she wears her ****** stranger dress;
one of her sisters is dying,
the other never lived;
God is a far off concept,
the fuchsia colored ball on
an overhead power grid
points her way to salvation.*
III.
*Morning became something else:
bright decline,
cold things start to burn,
tragic saxophone
among the beckoning,
everything's a symptom:
tax exiles, imperialists,
girls talking nitrous
--mouths full of soil,
Virginia Reel around the fountain
(do-si-do),
ready to buy up impossibles
as the dominoes fall.*
IV.
*Memory is a chemical
to the girl who cried champagne,
like ceiling stars
during the prodigal summer,
she played the game
on all fours,
and found a drawer
full of quarantine polaroids,
some with blood in her mouth,
others, of rain on her birthday.*
~
Mar 4, 2024
Mar 4, 2024 at 4:13 PM UTC
Tearing off
Imperialists' mantle
True to his name Fidel
He had lit
To the oppressed masses
And to those in the dark
An much-needed candle.
Weighing things from
Fraternity's angle
And the truth,
Fidel was not remiss
In dispatching own troops
In far off beyonds
To fortify for freedom
Mounted battle.
Considerate Fidel had taught
Innumerable orphans,
Whose combatant fathers lost.
Frowning up on
Amassing personal wealth,
He was building
The human power
Of the 3rd world like Ethiopia,
Among others,
In agriculture and health!
Stooping
To glittering things
While many leaders worried
To hanker for personal gain,
Fidel Castro,magnanimous,
Opted to assuage
The marginalized's pain.
For doing so
The shameless&bloodsucker;
Imperialists were trying
To **** him again and again.
Yes, Fidle was their bane!
Though Fidel is no more
His legacy we shall live to adore!//
Fiedel Castro was a true friend of Ethiopia!
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
'Twas during The Troubles,
when my uncle did,
made haste with his lads,
and in Belfast hid.
Their votes they cast,
and still the British stayed.
So they took up arms,
and like pianos they played.
Making bombs in the basement,
very carefully they planned.
They laid them at the entrance of Parliment,
let those imperialists be ******
Ooh ahh! Up the R.A.!
They shouted in the night.
Tiocfaidh ár lá!
They gave the Brits a good fight.
Thirty years later,
in a prison my uncle still lays.
He writes me letters,
He still believes in brighter days.
When the brits are out,
He'll go home.
Tend to his flock,
this Irishman will never bow to that throne.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC
dreadfully and drearily so she picked around her nose where her ring used to be
full of dead and destruction she ripped out pages of John 3.16, where her crown chakra used to feel free
wistfully wishing for her black jeans with a string instead of a zipper; she now wears a gown
wondering why, she contemplates in her midnight blue constellation journal: to down-
right mortify me,
to make a mockery, to….to, to…. to…. find me in case I pull the fire alarm and try to escape
she puts together puzzles with her mother’s name in cursive in the bottom right corner and puts them together with tape
begrudgingly so she ties up the used new balance sneakers she borrows and moans
she wants to move her body, for her form has been stagnant, oh how she wishes to roam
jogging, running, sprinting from the wolves to the butterflies and bunnies
painting a stain glassed window as a holy shrine to The Queen of The Goths, she’s so spunky
wondering where her soul’s mate could be in a blizzard this thick
but she knows she’s been a real witch, flying into her alter ego’s psyche on a broomstick
if she can infiltrate her reflection in the mirror she’ll catapult into outer space
although, around her neck, she’d much rather wrap a shoelace
In five days time, 120 hours, 7,200 minutes, not only does the doggy door open,
so does the front door, who had the key? Will the door be closing?
Jogging, running, sprinting from the eyes of the doctor to the arms of the unbroken
My feet are swollen
My hands need lotion
My thoughts are golden
I am coping
He is coping
We are coping
They are unbroken
Over a basket of fish and chips, I realize I was chosen
Is that a ****** up notion?
I just don’t want to feel hopeless
Is this excess of energy a bad omen?
Back in the free world now, I’m so scared of my spirit being stolen
But my energy is as vast as the ocean and potent
I win, I win, I win !
But the imperialists are closing
In
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC
Between the benign & the mundane,
the tyrant squashed people
like measly bugs,
trashed their human rights,
citizens disappeared in
the middle of the night,
pigs & neon flashes,
dreams destroyed,
scattering the saviors.
The heroic,
those ****** coups,
& the pink tide
won’t matter,
we’re all going
to where Hugo went
anyways,
imperialists with those
Zamora-phytes.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC