Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ryan Unger Jun 2015
“Life was easier when I was young.” Was what my grandma used to say,
“We didn’t have all the problems that people have today.
All of this technology, it helps clutter our mind,
Without it we’d be much less stressed I think that you would find.”

I never used to understand how she could think that’s true,
It’s obvious computers have made life easier for me and you!
Just look around at all the incredible things available to man,
The most powerful technology that can fit in the palm of your hand!

We have Email, and iPods, and TV you can record!
We have every kind of website to peruse if you’re bored!
We have Netflix, and GPS, and don’t forget Smartphones,
And we can do all our shopping with a mouse click in our homes!

Things have gotten so convenient that it’s so hard for me to know,
How somebody could think life was easier many years ago.
But as I grow older, I now slowly begin to see,
The difficulties that were also invented along with technology.

We now have cybercrime, which poses a very real threat,
Credit card information gets stolen and you can be crippled with debt.
And all your personal information sits vulnerable on your home computer,
Hackers can easily break in and take it like a cybernetic looter.

There are too many channels on TV you feel like your mind could drown,
And people in the ‘50’s never had their DVR break down.

People had only one phone at home; no cellphones at all;
Nowadays, I hate that anyone at any time can give my cellphone a call.
We have an entire of world of problems that we never had before,
And with the pace that society is moving they’re impossible to ignore.

As I get older, all this convenience slowly seems less grand,
And when I think of what my grandma said, I finally understand.
mikecccc Dec 2015
The world
is crumbling
and that TV in the window
looks dam good
irresponsible
possibly
but we could be dead
in an hour
or so it feels.

Would you get
looter mentality
if your world
started to crumble
perhaps
perhaps not
it's only hypothetical
for now.
Refrain from playing the looter
Or the parasite who takes
But always remain a builder
And known as one who makes

Yes build your life, proud and true
This is the Bitcoin way
Though looters claim we owe them
As Ayn Rand used to say

The looters count on Atlas…
That he’ll hold the world in place
But one day he will simply shrug
And the world will fall through space

Stand a maker, not a looter
Though the looters grow in size
Yes, swear by your love of life
That looting you’ll despise

Resist the urge for easy life
Prove strong as a woman or man
For either you’re a looter
Or you build everything you can

Our hands work and our minds conceive
And freely with others we trade
And let’s convert some looters
And end the looting charade
You can see this poem on a background here https://www.bitcoinpoems.pro/delivery044BuildersVsLooters.html
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Nobody should believe you
You’re a world class liar.
You’re going to burn your ****
‘Cause your pants are on fire!
You’ve always been a liar
Even back in your youth.
The only thing you fear is
Having to tell the truth.

If you shake hands with him
Count your fingers right quick
Be sure you still have them all.
Never trust his sneaky tricks.
He can stand right in front of you
And baldfacedly he can lie
While smiling like and angel
And looking you in the eye.

Olly, olly, oxen hook
This guy is a nasty crook.
Keep track of all he took
Then sentence him, by the book.
Heckley, Jekylly, criminal
He prefers to be subliminal.
But mostly he’s a bad motor scooter
A cutpurse and a poorhouse looter.

He would rob widows and orphans
And claim he was aiding charity
As if he is the only person who
Sees the world with clarity.
He calls it redistribution work
Of the world’s hard-earned wealth.
But he is fooling nobody, really,
Or he wouldn’t need to use stealth.

And when he runs for office, he
Can refine his art of playing *****
By hiding behind closed doors
And stealing from us covertly.
He will join the political machine
That is already firmly in place
And work in his mirror every day
To hone that public smiling face.

Olly, olly, oxen hook
This guy is a nasty crook.
Keep track of all he took
Then sentence him, by the book.
Heckley, Jekylly, criminal
He prefers to be subliminal.
But mostly he’s a bad motor scooter
A cutpurse and a poorhouse looter.
Dazzled by
the glamour of robber barons,
   a **** fetishist
      shills for feudal revival
         ambidextrously flogging
      bleach-white equestrian bones
   eventually dying
a looter's death.
Ayn Rand was a Russian-born American novelist, philosopher, playwright, and screenwriter. (via Wikipedia)

Mortified at Trump's presidential campaign, I can't help but think of it as the logical conclusion of garbage philosophy.

The "**** fetishist" thing may seem provocative for those unfamiliar with her work. A review of the *** scenes in The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged should provide context.

My partner pointed out that mentioning it at all might be perceived as ****-shaming. She makes a worthwhile point, so to clarify - that's not my intent, and my sincere apologies to anyone who might be offended.

Rather, it seems metaphorically apt as a description of American politics - the powerlessness we seem to display every four years in the torrent of  manipulative, exploitive electoral pandering. When will we finally tire of it?

I imagine Rand would have voted for Trump.
Dada Olowo Eyo Aug 2019
A gathering of coconuts,
Deliberating over tomato sauce,
How to make delicate cuts,
And not spoil the source.
A tragic day in Nigeria's history as mediocre government inaugurates a collection of buffoons as ministers for the next three-plus years.
Boy Gaskell Feb 2014
My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****,
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,
Bars from when I wanted to take on rapping.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
well, **** changed quick,
once it was like: i’ll change to take a differnet pic,
now it’s all about: i’ll change the pic to
keep the status quo...
then i’ll tackle global warming turning into a vegan...
root out the problems of carrots and leeks
taking rooting like silly dentistry in the poet’s corner
of a birmingham canal
(full credentials of a bled out cranium via a mowler)...
that will spank those **** capitalists
to ensure las vegas doesn’t exist... yep...
it will sort them out... bangladesh came before the maldives
for the five o’clock shadow and sideburns...
i scuttled like a rat off a ship into a pop song crescendo
of a ship sinking...
i said something about the expanding sockets that gave more
than a missed shaved plot allotment of 5pm and
gave way to insomnia am.
please god... 50... no more! no more! 50!
i want to be gone before einstein’s war of sticks and stones comes!
i want to be gone by then! god... einstein, prior to that
we fanbase an intellectual debate that never arose
from the logic of writing the next pop song,
i’ll be mermesrised by the pass and the passerby of the next dream
sincere from the class that gave us the denial of synchronisation
and a quote from marxism that evolved into chaos
with the oink-looter capitalism; anorexia got the dress...
man got the coat-hanger oak leaf for genitalia
that never mattered with trans-gender movement -
we were always exposed... and 2 x 2 of the clover assured
the pigmented futures of repeat...
well if i don't want to repeat... do you?
i hardly think so seeing you taking revenge
against homosexuality taking pleasure from ****...
like now... i will not lipgloss to toss my heart aside and
mascara the skies as dark lit ready to be kidney full for
a torrent of the breaking of the one muscle involved
in wetting the bed... colouring in strange, clepsydra indigo
identifiers as dittoing these words
with a single word: mothered;
indeed mothered... because unloved - pity the cosmopolitan
girl in you... you read the girlie magazines while
i read the books of soul-searches... you disposed of
to ready the column of the horrific repeat
for the heads or tails questions;
neither matters with you... since it should be asked of you:
horns or tail?
i guess that's a question with an answer
without the devil but the humanity:
the dentistry of vanity - like the god behind the wind
and the snowflake -
indeed psychopathy is like atheism...
with the former the soul doesn't exist...
with the latter god doesn't exist...
we're grounded for an eternity of dialectics.
Brent Kincaid Sep 2017
For the past thirty years or so
I’ve heard Republican broad hints
That never quite come to pass.
They must think I am dense;
That I sit and watch my TV
And get all stoked to hear them
Promise they will set things right
But reality never comes near them.

They talk about our poverty gap
And how they will narrow it down
And how they will lower interest
And they will quit fooling around.
They go on about their opponents,
Even when they have good records,
And then the election comes and
The people fail to get it together.

So every eight years they vote,
These fools I must call my peers
And throw the good guy out.
Every freaking eight years.
An even once after just four
They told the good guy goodbye
Then put in a world class crook.
Can anyone really say why?

I’ve watched my fellow man
Go bonkers like this repeatedly
And vote in some twisted clown
That ******* us up completely.
Nixon looked like the creep he was;
A greasy, rude and stupid man.
Then Reagan was a liar and a looter
I never was that fool’s loyal fan.

In between we’d get someone
In the job who wanted things fixed.
He would work hard as he could
And pray things wouldn’t be nixed.
But the current bubble-headed villain
Said he’d take the country back;
All his predecessor was guilty of
Was of being unremittingly black.

So, what’s with these people here
Who can’t tell a good thing from bad?
Why can’t they recognize success
And good times we have had?
All indexes were up, things were fine
Things were not a bit bad that fall.
So why did the half bright-Americans
Choose a guy with no experience at all?

Surely they don’t think any guy
Who doesn’t give a **** about them
Would care about more than rich buddies.
Of course not! That would be just dim.
Yet they did it and proved that fools,
When they’re left to play with the adults,
Can ruin things when they’re going well.
Now we must live with the results.
JP Jan 2017
a looter
always escape from
the eye of the God
Coz
the stolen goods
nothing but
a change of place on Earth
we should aware that
in the eye of law only,
be awarded as crime...
Drifton A Way Jul 2020
Repel a *****
Rats Amid Spam Emit Gas
Reward a Looter
Revel Guns and War Tide

Edit Raw DNA, Snug Lever
Retool a Drawer
Sag Time, Maps Dim a Star
Repel a *****
Her name is Sarah Palindrome and she’s running for president.... backwards Oh!
Bard Jul 2020
A systemic epidemic amid the pandemic
Shots off at capitol hill and alls a panic
Forensics takes money from the shooter
Proclaims the victim to be a looter

Throw lives away like trash on the block
Take poor lives at their sides a Glock
Stocks soar, Deaths soar, **** just our luck
**** on tour at mast is the patriots ****

Peace an option until they grabbed their piece
Take the lease call your tab a life will cease
Six six six its the nature of the beast
Money, greed, and avarice

All they want is every slice of prosperity
They flaunt a salary a workless propriety
Makers, producers, and workers in poverty
Still, they will rule with iron sovereignty  

This goes on for four more I'm going on a tour
Camp on a grassy knoll taking shots of Cuervo
Not enough to throw off my aim though
My contribution is to the body flow

That's just how war goes, no justice no peace
Just taking justice away with a piece
When I feel a debt is to me I pull the lease
And I feel what is owed to me is some peace

That'll never happen till all my friends can eat
I may die in a miserable cell in complete defeat
At least my skin won't be fleece won't be meat
For wolves to eat I'll be a man crushed underfeet

Funny we still fight confederate beliefs
More like fight the degenerate beliefs
Of the weak and the meek thieves
Stealing rights and lives for conceit

Liberty or death is the creed of our founders
Yet when liberty is stolen everyone just flounders
Death is the only retort to fascist panderers
Tired of all this fake comfort as a ponderer

The answer soon to be immutable one last stopper
That can permute this course as the only offer
An election of a conqueror or a molester
Choice between a beast and death or a monster

One mimics ein fuhrer  the other will fester
So whats best here civil war or uncle Chester
Months until the toll bell calls on her electors
To choose hell or tepid **** to quell the defectors
Olga Valerevna Jun 2020
my days have been numbered, my Soul has been bought
by all of the blood I could spill with my thoughts
and there is a Savior where ego once lived
Who grants me His Strength as I learn how to give
my mind was a riot, my heart was a stone
that turned into ashes and Rose when He Rose
a looter, a liar and addict of wrath
was given The Grace to be led to His Path
“Ищите Господа, когда можно найти Его; призывайте Его, когда Он близко. Да оставит нечестивый путь свой и беззаконник — помыслы свои, и да обратится к Господу, и Он помилует его, и к Богу нашему, ибо Он многомилостив.”
‭‭Книга пророка Исаии‬ ‭55:6-7‬
Zara Jul 2020
You utter this word every time you leave. Your perfume lingers, but you do not. You are cut off by the slam of the door you shut behind you.

    You and I, we have never said goodbye. Even though the sneaky word escapes our lips sometimes.

    But, no more! For from Death, I am reclaiming custody of Goodbye and this romantic notion of “only in death do we say goodbye” I will happily trade for her.

    She may have snored like a trooper, made tea super bitter, been a looter .… but we never should have given her up.

    We have never said goodbye. But I want to start.

    I want to look into your eyes and ...
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
cool capital
name:        WAR
SAW...

for wharever is
to be sown....

   ambition: zion...
reiteration
of the clever rat
fiddle...

dossing on:
and forever the inhibition
of the loitering
looter...

     come the desired
wake...
          boisterous
that commandz...
            umbrella: this never:
heigl

  game-walk-through sessions....
that can last through and...
thoroughly 10 hours... straight...
which would make...
gone with the wind...
and 1950s hollywood epics...
ben-hur... seem like...
losing your virginity...

because i don't game...
i like...
what i don't... squid
**** the two point quarter
even want to remember...
mario bros and sudoku is
about as complex as...
the finality spectrum
of the ******* movie...
but that's not involving
any... role-play for "real"
game and solving the cinematic
experience lobotomy of...
where's the ******* audience?
click-baiting...
i click on the keyboard...
i'm pretty ******* sure some...
squid-mush of sensation of
zombie-esque... lavendar...
is about to...
pig-snout... and snorkel...
its way out of... sana'a...
              or abu d'habi... or...
gold: the mined...
              catch-phrased sunni
wonderdrug of religiosity
chanting: because...
secular sensibility is...

when games... had the basic arithmetic
of timing...
and had no assorted likening
to mind... narration...
a game of chess was...
a game... and two engaged /
to departing parties...
not this... quasi-modo loot of...
gone with the wind = 4h worth of viewing time...
the resident evil 2 - remake...
walkthrough... 9h...
                   not even harry and harriett
potter would ask for "that" long...

such is the ontology of gaming:
i don't want to play them,
i want to watch them...
given that... the conventionality
of movies...
is... a... variation of lobotomy...
              this crude: method...
              loaded: bomb... blast...
low i.q. scrutiny and all that's...
writing?
  yeah...
"low i.q." eskimo:
brow-haven... frown...
apache... winnetou patriarch
k.o. smithy:
you are... the nick's marginal...
and opus... curtain...
and shadow and... wetted bed...
egoism...

yeah... come meet me...
100 years from now!
this... immediacy...
and now... will only...
ever loiter... and become...
apparent... somehow within
the confines...
as the majority are... swollen...
to the(ir) luxury of sleep.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
the beard as a violin - somewhat...
some new exquisite
variation - a tease of the brass...
the girdle and "the thing in the middle"...
also...
the beard allocated to the outline
of the jaw...
   never being allowed to draw a hiding
flow... this unbelieveable scrutiny
of a... breaking of a swan's
neck...

    not that a milan kundera work
is out-of-date...
                 le rideau. essai en sept
parties
...
  the times are out-of-date...
       my god: this is so blatantly
pointless that it hopes
to crease a letter on a bone...
  something near impossible...
                        
        it's just impossible to make
references, concessions...
fishing talking points
around the pillars of books...
       when... perhaps 1 from a 1000
will listen to bbc radio 3...
otherwise: what bookclub antics...
otherwise this suffocating
       self-aggrandizing
               litany of prose...

              it's such an impossible future
with such an impossible past...
and unlike passively listening
to the radio...
   to read a madame bovary...
to the pickwick papers...
             if it's not a metaphor for
archeology...
   then... there must be over 500 years
in passing...

                 a czech learns french...
  a ****** learns english...
and perhaps a russian comes
to grips with german...
                                   futility of...
what has encapsulated anglo-
pop culture...
                    it's indeed a shame
that i haven't read
a stephen king novel...
         but given the cinema suckling
and outpouring of: adaptations...
more of a shame to not
have read a dean koontz novel...

douglas murray
roger scruton - of the latter...
a book about wine...
and how... you never see wine
bottles on the street...
you might see an empty beer can...
you might see a 35cl bottle
of whiskey...
            it's very impossible
to read a book by someone who
is so well spoken...

           you wouldn't want to
deface the rhetoric
with your own punctuation monstrosity...
and it's not like:
but it is like these days:
it's somehow necessary to write...
something must be written...
it doesn't have to be thought of, prior, either...

it must be written...
that it is somehow also given
the preposition alias of thought it one thing...
but beyond all...
the vogue of the dead writers...
i want to imagine 100 years
from now... and how...
h'american poets of the 1960s
will fall out of sensibility...

pseudo-"poet" / proto-journalist...
well yes... it's just so: impossible
to not having to make reference as having
read: or eaten a laceration
of a turnip...

            eyes-for-glue...
and what's the glued toll stare...
                      then again: the only read...
pivot on the easily digested...
the striptease of skim reading...
my better than a vote:
a voice with "idiosyncracy"
of best: puncture(d)
                                 of punctuation...

for all the glamour of the sacrificial lamb...
best be riddled by
the counter... to sacrifice...
work-around of sanctity...
           also... "concerns" for the
impossible hand sequence...
when it's last waving...
   and the first...
                           crispy...
                   a monotony of
puffing up pillows...
                         image after image...
such a structure of
             hindering silk when
all that's best served is a dutch wooden
pillock: best believed
to be a shaman of the shoe:

walked around... pranced...
******* jolsted into captivity...
ruining the expectations
from how picasso borrowed
contorts off of a mandrill...

                  lost the contorts of the ***:
in gizmo-mode...
sold out to loot the... m'eh...
                     œuvre "or" the Louvre...
limbo-granny litany...
  skidding and slouching...
    kidding and seriously orientated
wtih the w'oah jingles...
            
     for there be a public liability
of conscience and the ruler dictum
of the squeezed at bow-tie...
            
         or that there's a concept of
clothes like
fur... when there's only
something pristine...
             breaking-the-break-back...
the fur is a dried-out
over-sweating into shirt...
            my *******' worth
of the subjectivity of death...
        when there's the lost and last
ordeal of a body cocoon
in:
      hybrid moth looter...

                   my new cool is loot...
a shadow a crease and
a shadow ask for beside...
the sun ruining a shadow's dalmation...
pocket the nuisance
life's long lost
reason to adjective life...

         slow-cold-and-hot revived
hinterland crisp.
Dada Olowo Eyo Sep 2019
But for the greed of men,
Would our spirits have floundered?
Daily robbed by the looter's pen,
May we have been plundered?

— The End —