"intifada" poems
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She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
More a French shave than five o'clock shadow,
the young artist's way of backing off,
announcing danger, an air of the unexpected,
as the King snake has evolved to feign the Coral.
Yet, where camel hair touched canvas calm,
where quintessential light met quotidian ennui,
not the advertised blackened rose or orchid,
rather the sizzle, the honeyed-heat of azalea.
Each stroke portended floral intifada,
pastel yellows and oily greens igniting
upon a fired-umber background,
threatened to melt the easel into tar.
I stood gape-jawed, nodded approval,
eyeing the second creation within a single flower.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
First they decentralise
secondly they marginalise
then they criminalise
and all the lies make you
believe
that you're the
bad guys.
Nothing changes what is and can be,
democracy
was a pipe dream in
Ancient Greece
which was sold on and we hold
on to the dream.
Criminal records play a very poor tune,
the sooner you realise that what lies
ahead is not what you thought of,
you'd be better off dead, but
the triumph begins when our sins are absolved by the abolishment of parliament and the reinstatement of choice, what choice do we have?what more do we need?
How about enough food to feed the family?
If I could weave you a story then I'd spin you a yarn.
The potter and his pottery,
dull clay on the wheel
can you feel how the spin turns and starts to begin
when a shape takes its form and
is that not sheer poetry by the potter
and his pottery?
No one kills you with kindness, but with kindness they will and the World will become a still place ruled over with one face, stern, unartistic, sick and pliable the people are liable to fall under the wheel again,
can you feel again,
is this not another poetry by the famous,
is it some adultery by the nameless,
add 'lise' on the ends of all words and
are they not shameless?
Blameless?
I don't think any of us are.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧
Incensed by mighty Milo, you act brave
then rage and bludgeon, shutting down dissent
while Mario Savio shudders in his grave.
Behold: another shameful sad event.
Youthful useful idiots on the attack,
pawns of global capital dressed in black:
Bernie's Berserkley: raze it to the ground
and Donald will be twenty-twenty bound.
Georges Sorel, amused, looks on in silence
at your half-baked proletarian violence,
infantile intifada, civil war,
a glimpse of what the future has in store:
you are the fascists you've been waiting for.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
I'm the unholiest of nights
I am nocturnal antichrists
I am the intifada phantom
Blacking out the Israelites
I am the netherworld Rohingya
To Gautama's paradise
I can indulge in my salvation
For a fraction of the price
I am the spice of life aboard
Malagasy pirate ships
I am the pyramids of greed
Built atop the cracks of whips
I get on nerves of your Nirvana
I'm the burning Book of Mormon
I'm a hundred years of war
And famine, plagues and locusts swarmin'
I am 47 ronin
To the Hiroshima priest
As they Shinto Harakiri
I am rising in the east
I am the fracture in the caste
Of the Brahmin’s brittle bones
I am the wrath of jealous deities
On Mount Olympus thrones
I'm the cult of personality
The Satan's circle level
I'm the hammer and the sickle
I'm the patron saint of rebel
I'm the heathen Eden extremist
The radical depiction
Of Muhammad's severed head
Adorned in crowns of crucifixion
I'm the Xenu Voodoo Guru
I'm the omniversal cosmic view
The lord of space and time
And now my thetan horde awakens you
From sins of your mortality
I know them all too well
You place your faith in heaven
But I make mine here in hell
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 3:04 AM UTC
Over and over again
the ongoing psychosis named reality
throws at us the vile complications of existence
like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll
when you are born among proletarians
and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist
like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights
men that walk the same sidewalk as you
the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions
trapped in the same staircase of materia
causing the universe to circle reason
and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence
like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film
as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern
battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses
while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues
like the sorrows of young Werther
in the blood of your martyred nightmares
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
Why this never ending hate
Where impressionable young men swallow jaundiced bait,
To **** and maim - all in the name of their one prophet,
Unleashing burning mayhem with rocket after rocket.
Has discourse and humanity disintegrated to this point,
Where the only leaders they invariably anoint
Preach such hatred and revenge,
With glaring eyes and fingers tightly clenched.
Generations go to die leaving mother's sadly wailing,
The guns they hold no longer just for playing,
A dream of glory as yet another blessed martyr,
The sad byproduct of this never-ending intifada.
Were only calmer minds at play,
Leaders who knew the words they had to say,
To avert such bloodshed that's never a solution,
The only outcome despair and persecution.
Violence is a twin, a spawn of the same seed,
Destruction not discourse it's destiny to lead,
Strength is shown by character, tenacity and grit,
Mandela proved the adage to never ever quit.
Jews and Palestinians cousins by another name
So very different and yet so very much the same,
Two thousands years of sharing this small land,
A differing religion but surely the same band.
Enough this constant slaughter tearing families apart,
Let wiser minds prevail in making a new start,
Nothing is impossible when truth and will combine,
A path to coexistence is what each must define.
Will it be easy no, but clearly it's a must,
It starts with creating empathy and a modicum of trust,
The alternative unthinkable, impossible to bear,
As misery and death the only certainty they'll share.
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 11:41 AM UTC
Through this old city to fly
to look down and weep from
on high
at the poverty stricken who kick at the doors of cathedrals and food banks
at those who just want to get by,
at those who give thanks to an imaginary creator
at the makers of myths.
On the magazine racks girls on their backs, men with no briefs on, how long does this go on and who really cares?
and it's the pharmaceutical industry that made this machinery and we are being ordered to take two pills of lethargy
four times a day.
Intifada?
it's
harder to break chains than make them.
Filling up land with the landfill and the overspill's dumped far out to sea,
bring it on home to me that we as society are solely to blame.
'I came
I saw...'
swear I'll never
go there again
cross my heart and hope to die
which I probably will
at the end.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
Another wake and one more lake of consternation
I must cross,
at night I toss and turn as if the dreams I have are
sent to burn these images I see,
into my brain.
Another station and one more train,
lots of steam to burn again.
Every time I start to tire my imagination
catches fire.
I smoulder,
ignite,
and the older I become
I realise
I'm not the smoking gun but the bullet
in the chamber,
I am a danger to myself.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
Naturally
tranquillised or
desensitised by
outside interference
and here
around the circumference
I'm being discussed in
some great conference
by authors of the
intifada
a guard rail and thank god for it
stops me from falling into **** creek
next week I may not be so lucky
as the outcome of said conference
might just be about to **** me.
and anyway these people **** me
every day I lose a little more of the
will I owned and many times before
I die
I'll die and die until even death turns around and asks me, why oh ******* why?
I shall overdose
go comatose
I suppose that's what
they'd like to see, but
being me I won't,
I'll stick around to be a
constant thorn
make them ******* wish
to have not be born
I can be a ***** a butch
a screaming Lord ******* Such
and if you don't know that
you don't know me.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
Indiscernible language orations
A prayer
Almost palpable now
In the air
Is it fear
Of a God
That compels their devotion
The spoken word utterance
Faithful awoken
With all of the vehement
Furor of man
Dispossessed of his land
Grippin’ tight to his chest
A pulled pin full of sin
Intifada Quran
Understanding his place
In the maker’s good graces
Mistaken intentional flawless
Creation
My ritual suicide serpent
Salvation
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC