"malcontents" poems
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes
another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see
for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes
for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils
As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does
Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed
Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee
eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes
come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee
This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs
Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam
Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex
but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes
perchance unlike you common goons, she knows distinction has no comparison to thee
Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms
Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee
so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches
we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas
in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah
for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes
Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we
lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches
indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea
and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies
It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence
Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
I should have run to Japan, to be the writer that I can, to sing folk to girls who are smiling because they can, I should have road the rails, staring at the never ending cities with hearts ablaze, ducking down into a dreamland maze of alley ways, give my poems to hobos and gays, and find any naru to sing karaoke, go into dens and clubs that traded air for smoking, I'd be the talk of toast, and the **** of the island, or I'd get drunk with samurais on a foam pylon, I'd ask a geisha to dance, but get nervous and spill my drink all over my pants, I'd go with malcontents and roughdy otakus as we hit the arcades on speed, I'd stay at a hotel and get married married in the states, I'd fall in love with a girl for a weekend and shed tell me she hates fancy dinners but loves dates, I would end up sleeping in the hills, high and full of chills, I'll tell school children what the stars mean, even though they can't be seen, I'll write a poem about my sin, of wanting my right, my right of a writing man, in Japan.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
The Rent-a-Mob loonies, the gangsters and the Racists
damaged scums of society and contemporary politics
Ignorant arrogant sociopaths who want it all for nothing
Indulgent wasters in nation awashed with opportunities
In idle union they scream, feed us poor and **** the Rich
Strangers come Poland, Bulgaria, India and all over
to work in farms, hospitals, hotels and Constructions
Building futures and faring in endeavours with sweat
Crimson gangs and Renta Mobs states we serve nobody
**** the wealth makers, **** the parasites and let's drink
Our shyster gangs of Revo-comrades and malcontents
See killing fields, whereas strangers toil and find rich pickings
Our Revos Distract, confuse, sow seeds of dissent, make strife
Blame all others, lie and decieve, fling indulgent political turds
Rent brainwashed Mobs,into ***** bridgard to do their ***** work
We all know life is unfair and even roses have imperfections
Some are born to riches in spades and some born to beggars in dusts
Those with time, sit and ask God why, just a fact of life to accept
But from dust has risen billionaires, whilst riches have made duds
Insane Crimson sits in spurious guise and odious fallacy playing God
Yeh, **** the Rich and feed the poor, why hide and use Rent a mob
Why not air your case in broad daylight and stand your conviction
The coward you are knows it hold no sanity for those with sense
Except for thieves, the workshy and wasters who cheat to survive
In your city of merits aplenty, Revo-crimson is beneath contempt
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
Juxt
Easy bucks
Market flux
The democratic peace
Imperial caprice
Praise be to lord and Savior
Sacrament, scandal-flavored
Legion of dissenting voice
Treason in the use of choice
Give me your teeming tired, your huddled poor
Bones with to festoon the corporate door
And if you could turn to me, adoring
I’ll check my busted magic billiard ball
All signs point toward what I’m ignoring
Burnt the bridge to your heart, land, deed and all
When time is right, we secretly confide
What should have lain bare in our first report
Our ideal homes of mental cards collide
Seems, in comparison, we all fall short
Glory in history contiguous
Gory details, a bit ambiguous
The equality of man
******* Ku Klux ****
Only with the best intent
Rubber bullet malcontents
Perpetual motion
Toward backward notions
Money flows
Deathly throes
Oppose
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
Looking out of the window;
a ribbon of duck-egg-blue sky,
fringed by the sun's late light,
is sandwiched by grey cumulus.
It frames Sycamore tree tops,
red tiled pyramids with their expectant aerials
pointing West, littering clean lines.
It is a mute view;
serried bins wait for the mornings collection,
cars sit dumb, curbed,
their daily commute completed.
Two starlings flit, silent,
and in the far distance a high contrail is picked out
in gold as a thread in blue silk.
For five years this view remains changeably the same;
unspoilt by the entropy of new perspectives.
This is the summer of un-broadcast malcontents,
pacified in Brazilian spectacle. Days simmer here and there.
Soap operas filter through,
made to massage the message
of consume and discard, of holidays and pistons.
And in the mornings, that never come,
we abandon the cars that cannot diverge
from work-honed routes,
taking to the air from Sycamores as Starlings.
June 2014
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
flossing jocks swing mighty
***** crow blowing triumphant
incumbents sent to extend the morality
vitality reality equals fallacies and tribulation
recreation station seething with malcontents grossly exaggerate
the aggregate to depreciate the innate greatness of iced milk and cherries
varying fairies trailing mankind grind to different beats
seated meat sacks lack tact and force ill-mannered children
to render hate venders with crayons
yawning chasms plastered with plasma and grass clippings
flipping chihuahuas slipping in to the dark
bouncing ta-ta’s, beer-soaked and tightly clad
refocus the mass passing by
flying low with bellies plastic filled
pelicans land softly on quiet mountain lakes to breed in peace
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
I see myself draped in red from the waste down, locking the door of a carpeted bathroom to which I may or may not have a right according to the owner.
I do have a right, though, for I forever outrun owners and dignitaries, malcontents and over-fed politicians.
I defecate happily something harsh to their ears but soft on my *** Gratefully, I turn the page to another day. This one will not catch me in such distress.
My bowel symphony this morning has four movements and I begin to get impatient after the third because I've made up my mind that I want to read Fitzgerald.
The fourth comes appeasingly and short, a toot in good nature and I clean myself quickly, completely.
I hop downstairs to comb my hair and eat carrots. But my mother is chasing after me stronger than usual, still holding the pill she wants me to take.
I get the carrot and end the poem.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:26 AM UTC
I made a mistake and read the news today
Another pale man with a soul-less tie got away
With hurting people and polluting his way
To a golden parachute while he tries to cut our pay
Am I supposed to be happy about this turn of events?
A man sits in a tower and manipulates dollars and cents
People really aren’t anything to him but malcontents
I just shook my head and added to my list of discontents
So what’s the story?
Why does wrong get the glory?
Why is salvation illusory?
Why do good men live in poverty?
Why do the rich write our history?
Why do the meek remain thirsty?
Why do the quenched **** our country?
Why is God's love such a mystery?
What’s the story?
What’s the story?
They say I’m just jealous
Always sitting around and drinking with the fellas
Not knowing what to do, expecting someone to tell us
Believing the rich steal our life from us
But that ain’t it my good friend
You see life ain’t all about accumulatin’
And to choose to live humbly is worth glorifin’
So try to understand because I ain’t apologizin'
So what’s the story?
Why does wrong get the glory?
Why is salvation illusory?
Why do good men live in poverty?
Why do the rich write our history?
Why do the meek remain thirsty?
Why do the quenched **** our country?
Why is God such a phony?
What’s the story?
What’s the story?
When is the human race ever going to learn
You can’t keep taking and never waiting your turn
There’s no virtue in selfishness and what you earn
You know who said it but it’s her books time to burn
I’m going to say these things and put myself out there
I don’t care if you think I’m a loser whose going nowhere
‘Cause if I don’t say something then whose gonna care?
You can laugh but it's time for some class warfare
So what’s the story?
Why does wrong get the glory?
Why is salvation illusory?
Why do good men live in poverty?
Why do the rich write our history?
Why do the meek remain thirsty?
Why do the quenched **** our country?
Why is God for some men only?
What’s the story?
What’s the story?
I know their type ‘cause I’m not so young anymore
They smile at you but their sincerity is something to ignore
It’s not real because they’re really looking at the floor
Just hoping you go away so they can keep mining the ore
It’s a loser’s lament and I know that’s where it’s at
I may cry but I tell you I’m not impressed with all that
You take your millions and be a fat cat
But I'm not afraid of you because I ain’t no rat
Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
in the trenches
battling rattling prattlers
straddling irritated malcontents
brandishing education
via the internet –
limiting access
trimming excess
brimming with confidence
lifers in academic dress
blessed by family members
proud of a child’s accomplishments
allowed only to wear non blue regalia –
cell-in after dinner
no-yard, no rec
lock-down at the correction facility
eight by eleven printed paper
symbol of hard work and determination
in the face of contempt and mistrustful eyes
lies –
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Well you wanna go out dancing.
I don't wanna leave my pad.
I won't loosen up this necktie 'til my head falls in my lap.
Then you'd be lapping up my words
that are
curdled,
soured,
absurd,
purchased with inflated currency
and sold off for a herd
of sappy sentiments
for worn-out, bought-up malcontents.
Yeah, you're believing anything these days...
And I'm far too good a liar
selling real estate
on toxic, poisoned ground.
Filling in all of these forms
and putting dumpster fires out.
Standardized.
Attracting flies...
Follow darkened circles down...
To my parlor. Find me cutting up and dealing
out my cards
and doubling down on all the reasons
I've been feeding you.
Repeating 'til it's my turn
to start eating plates of crow.
Now you won't take any chances.
I'm a golem made of ash.
I won't fire up the big band. You won't come sit on my lap.
I've been dishing out these words
that are
used up
barren,
burned
far too long. The chafing dishes cooled
and all our vittles turned.
Buffet line sentiments
for naïve, hungry malcontents
starving to believe in anything these days.
Well you wanna go out dancing...
I'm not gonna leave my pad...
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
Contrary to what is known
About Tunguska’s hellish blast,
Contrary to all the dread
Engendered in those deeds of past,
Despite the anger close at hand
When loathsome fiends encroach thy space,
Regardless of the fury felt
When malcontents spit in your face.
Go gather up your fortitude
Hold all that’s dear, close to your chest,
Contain the beast you’ve locked within
Adjust till you’ve maneuvered best.
Then….
Unleash the very gates of hell
To vanquish those who would intrude,
Break the carapace of blood.
Then stay thy hand, preserve the crude
For them to agonise, reflectively,
Decisions made too cheap
And actions, injudiciously,
Commited indiscreet.
Marshalg
@theCoalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
7 April 2010
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 12:09 AM UTC
I am a stranger
in a strange
land
When asked the time
of day I give numbers
instead of letters
The blank stares
of others
offers no comfort
or help
In a city of well-kept glass,
on roads they’d have you
think were gold, there are
men and women and children
living lives they’d call
“happy”
with a strange feeling
of aloneness,
I cut swath across their
ranks, asking each man
and women and
child:
“what do you mean
you’re happy?”
from the glazed over eyes,
to the obvious lies,
to the corruption and
hatred and greed
above all things I’ve seen
between all things I need
below me I see a great depth
where are the reporters?
the conspirators? the
malcontents? where are
the watchdogs we call
nary-do-wells? or their
brothers the minor
senators? what happened
to religion? and faith
and belief? what happened
to god and to justice?
why are the front doors
closed and the back
doors open? why do
we not look into our
eyes? what happened
to us? all of us? every
one? where have I been
and now gone?
my restless eyes,
quite hypnotized,
cannot comprehend
or think of the
truth
that this land that I’m in,
this one stranger than fiction,
is in fact, my own, and no
other
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 5:14 PM UTC
The rat-terrier
that I’d loved for
over a decade
has been dead for
awhile now.
Sometimes I miss that dog.
Sometimes I miss cigarettes.
My America is now
the go-to destination
for the suicide-bomber
or
The Mass-Shooting Machine
All of this national abomination
has become all too normal.
&
why is any of this
at all attached,
in any way,
to our
Easter-Sunday-Church-Going
morals?
Tragedy,
a travesty,
trustworthy humans.
-untrue-
mistrustful,
unworthy misogynist,
malcontents
lacking empathy.
Unpaid checks,
no gravity -
a lacking of grateful
hearts.
Our ears destined,
designed, dedicated to hearing
only the hurtful,
instead of the healing.
On the take -
take or be taken
fake or be faking-
make or be made-
scapegoated,
goaded into submission
leaving
us wondering
just what,
exactly is so bad
about hate.
I mean everyone’s doing it these days;
and no one seems to be doing it wrong.
Maybe that’ll change
once we’re on our
deathbeds.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 7:05 PM UTC
Malcontents are contrary.
Praiseworthy comments
Find antithetic lamments
Filled with spite and bile.
If somethings are good,
It's understood,
They're twisting all the while.
They argue black and white,
Or night and day;
Wear blinders to other ways.
They just don't see the rainbow.
Every query has three sides;
Their's is there to despise;
Contrary to pluses
Of the other three sides.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
Write - untamed ! in fearless insecurity
unconstrained by censure
silence or petty malcontents
seeking not gratuitous affections
embattled by honesty
against oppression voice dissent
form - finds her beauty in a winding oaken staircase
poetry - toils within each acorn
crafting her spiraled ascent
seek thy inmost pen twitching 'neath bound skin
in living script DNA writes
so mysteriously eloquent
restring mind's bow thoughts reified as arrows
in ardent release unwavering let fly !
Artistry - true to thy own hearts intent
~~~~
A fallen acorn cannot imagine its life
formed into a winding oaken staircase.
As the oak tree cannot love the artisan carpenter;
a fallen world cannot conceive of what artistry
God's Carpenter desires to craft within us.
geo.v 4/2015
A reading by: Horace (translated by Francis)
"The wood-born race of men when Orpheus tam’d,
From acorns, and from mutual blood reclaim’d.
The Priest divine was fabled to assuage
The tiger’s fierceness, and the lion’s rage."
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 8:50 AM UTC
When we cast our minds eye deep into squared stone,
into bleached canvas or lumped clay...
into shiny new spools of thread or empty manuscript pages,
we sometimes hear the silent electricity of some elusive spirit
calling on us to shape it from the emptiness before us.
Dragons and fairies beg us for eyes and wings.
Clouds beg us for open air.
Wolves and women beg us for large hungry mouths.
Delinquent young malcontents beg us for careless countenances and eternal cigarettes.
Ambiguous protagonists beg us for meaningful lives.
These assemblages, endeavors and desecrations we generously decree "art"
and we hold them high
above the humdrum utilitarian and accidental incarnations of matter
that belong in the dimensions of nature and industry.
These incarnations hold court as the kings and queens of matter.
These are the celebrations of mans love affair with time, with space, with insanity and with immortality.
The spider finds his art in the hopeless **** of the captured fly against the sticky trappings of the web.
For him, it's desperate black buzz holds all of the sway of a fine orchestra flawlessly reciting some intricate overture.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
Hiding behind screens.
Sealed from the world.
Connected/detached.
The next best/worst thing.
Our precious intellect...
Our fleeting consciousness...
Boxed on a chip and stored away...
Hidden and safe...
Our stored binary dreams.
Malcontents under pressure.
Until they find the box.
Press the button.
All is consumed in flames.
We hurt the ones we love the most
and I love all of mankind.
Woe to an empire of blood.
Woe to an empire of blood.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
My words start as vapor
eventually coalescing and manifesting themselves on paper
but they are never really finished, they just diminish
until slow enough for me to catch
and dispatch them for my own use
but the truth is that I am just taking snapshots of a train of thought
that stretches to infinity
that is complexity and humanity
that is me, and so much more
I go floating through the door
I am ten feet off the floor
Drifting toward the atmosphere
Not there, nor here
I am near and I am far
I rise up to the stars
So high that I can see the earth
So small and insignificant
Yet utterly magnificent
It’s a matter of perspective
Consciousness is collective
So my view is not new
It is you, and all of them too
One is a universe, two is a crowd
Seven billion heads inside the cloud
Causing blizzards and acid rain
Never pausing our lizard brains
Paws and claws and vicious maws
Tearing at our sanity
Glaring enemies of clarity
We strive for perfect parity
But we are but a mess
evolution made us malcontents
We are revolutionary dissidents
Overburdened by stress
Too afraid to confess
So we swim in sorrow and silence
A waking nightmare, a quiet violence
When the path out becomes clear
You will hear a resounding cheer
As the human race takes its rightful place among the stars
No longer our own adversaries
We will traverse the universe
Going supernova with rhyme and verse
No more fear for the reaper or the hearse
No tears, we will find freedom from the curse
And each person will feel peace
Perching on Saturn’s rings
But only if we stop clinging to the ground
To the weights that hold us down
Weightless we can face this
We can stare into the sun
See that the journey has just begun
Shine bright like enlightened beings
Light enough to float through the ceiling
Might be tough when your mind is reeling
But it is just a feeling that will pass
once you fly into the firmament
And finally find enlightenment
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
gliding through
those dangerous yellow lights
stepping outside
the smoke-filled highways
entering into a relapse
hazy chemicals started creeping in
black stairwell standing thin
with a balcony audience; telescopic justice
cctv cameras with red dots flashing
fearful, slugging away the underworld
malcontents
but ********* those lips were made for
mine
they were made for figuring out
starcharts; territorial exercise
executing movements, kamikaze sake
whirling death
where you'd definitely put it on repeat
looper paradise
steal the narcotic shockers
and donate it to this poor
soul, Pablo Escobar
even if you exit through
the shadows
maybe i'd still find you
biochemical traces
neon-covered faces
in those dangerous yellow lights
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC