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Saul Makabim Jun 2012
**** masterminds
steer clear of this man
He's relentless
a pitbull
Lumping up Pinkman
for no logical reason
He's a madman
Massacres Mexican
kingpins and button men
Knocks out Keith Jardine
in a barfight
initiated as a ptsd
relief valve
Maddog brothers
Axe murdering elite
eliminated with a bullet
a fender
and a little help from Gustavo Fring  
The only man
to walk away unscathed
from the exploding head of Danny Trejo debacle
Houndog Hank
the sherman tank
is hot on Heisenbergs trail.
Its almost guaranteed
One of them will die
Heisenbergs Bad
But Schrader
is badass.
Sunday July 15th
Seher Seven Oct 2014
I can't believe all of the things they say about me
Walk in the room they throwing shade left to right
They be like "Ooh, she's serving face!"
And I just tell em, "Cut me up, and get down!"

They call us ***** 'cuz we break all your rules down
And we just came to act a fool, is that all right? (Girl, that's alright)
They be like "Ooh, let them eat cake!"
But we eat wings and throw them bones on the ground!

Am I a freak for dancing 'round? (queen)
Am I a freak for getting down? (queen)
I'm cutting up, don't cut me down
Yeah I wanna be, wanna be Q.U.E.E.N.

Is it peculiar that she twerk in the mirror?
And am I weird to dance alone late at night? (Naw!)
And is it true we're all insane? (Yeah)
And I just tell 'em "No, we ain't" and get down

I heard this life is just a play with no rehearsal
I wonder will this be my final act tonight
And tell me what's the price of fame?
Am I a sinner with my skirt on the ground?

Am I a freak for dancing 'round?
Am I a freak for getting down?
I'm cutting up, don't cut me down
Yeah I wanna be, wanna be Q.U.E.E.N.

Hey, brother, can you save my soul from the devil?
Say is it weird to like the way she wear her tights?
And is it rude to wear my shades?
Am I a freak because I love watching Mary? (Maybe)

Hey, sister, am I good enough for your heaven?
Say will your God accept me in my black and white?
Will he approve the way I'm made?
Or should I reprogram, reprogram and get down?

Am I a freak for dancing 'round?
Am I a freak for getting down?
I'm cutting up, don't cut me down
Yeah I wanna be, wanna be Q.U.E.E.N

Even if it makes others uncomfortable
I will love who I am
Even if it makes other uncomfortable
I will love who I am


Don't shake 'til the break of dawn
Don't mean a thing, so duh
I can't take it no more
Baby, we in tuxedo groove
Pharaohs and E. Badu
Crazy in the black and white
We got the drums so tight
Baby, here comes the freedom song
Too strong we moving on
Baby, this melody
Will show you another way
Been tryin' for far too long
Come home and sing your song
But you gotta testify
Because the ***** don't lie

No, no, the ***** don't lie
Oh no, the ***** don't lie

Yeah
Yeah, Let's flip it
I don't think they understand what I'm trying to say

**I asked a question like this
"Are we a lost generation of our people?
Add us to equations but they'll never make us equal.
She who writes the movie owns the script and the sequel.
So why ain't the stealing of my rights made illegal?
They keep us underground working hard for the greedy,
But when it's time pay they turn around and call us needy.
My crown too heavy like the Queen Nefertiti
Gimme back my pyramid, I'm trying to free Kansas City.

Mixing masterminds like your name Bernie Grundman.
Well I'm gonna keep leading like a young Harriet Tubman
You can take my wings but I'm still goin' fly
And even when you edit me the ***** don't lie
Yeah, keep singing and I'mma keep writing songs
I'm tired of Marvin asking me, "What's Going On?
March to the streets 'cuz I'm willing and I'm able
Categorize me, I defy every label
And while you're selling dope, we're gonna keep selling hope
We rising up now, you gotta deal you gotta cope
Will you be electric sheep?
Electric ladies, will you sleep?
Or will you preach?"
Queen Lyrics
from The Electric Lady

Janelle Monae -
"Queen" is track #3 on the album The Electric Lady.
If you haven't heard this yet, you should! The beat sings to you and demands you get up and DANCE!!!
Raven Feels Aug 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, happy August:)


purple moons and blond twins soon
talking horses and no gravity forces
jumping on cars and livestream of stars
blue dives hope and carrying yellow soap
the never ringing phone had rung and infinite questions in the air hung
mystic eyes danger and love of my life a stranger
I represent Lady Dream
and her fake lashes of gleam
a fantasy
hidden secrets in her world reality
in every color deceptive
subconsciously destructive
choose your perspective
she is not new
my haven in hours of few
on the mind
never understand what you find
now I sleep to see her poisonous skies
not to rest that one for the one who dies
nightmares my addiction don't be scared
called unravel of fallen hair
might do her a night stall
yet she leaves like a swift and crawls
now I know her stories are coming back in fear
been there done that since the end of last year
like signs flooded in clear waters
better than drowning with unknown ocean callers
I greet every era illusionary welcome
I carve every ranger in memory then run
walls in paths they deceive in glisten
the ferris wheel hangs and listens
sometimes we don't talk anymore
she throws ventures then struggles in store
masterminds wrapped around her finger they strive
Neptune rains diamonds and they cut like knives
she thinks before the sunshine we play a lying game
and I play along in absolute shame
she comes back with a curious mystery every night
and hello! sweet poetry from under my pillow then ignites

                                                           ------ravenfeels
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
What if machines ruled the world?
Whatever would there be?
If surgeons were all robots, without knowledge.
Just controlled by programmers.
Whose programs could be manipulated by international spammers.
All out to make a rapid buck.

What if all the soldiers were not human,
If all of them were robots.

What on Earth would be?
I guess with robotic soldiers, no soldier boys and girls would die.
The robots could battle each other.

No need to worry about hurting each others fathers or cursing their mothers
What if they became corrupted?
What ever would we do?
What if these metal and plastic maniacs ran amok?
Maybe a power surge, at the wrath of Thor and his thunderstorms,
Their circuits may be rather short.
A corral full dying robots, successfully caught.
Awaiting decommissioning by their human masterminds.
(C) Livvi
Well that was a little different
Those onion dome cupolas,
Sheer Slavic sublimity,
Instructing us:
Perhaps Peter the Near Great--
Rather than picking a pack of pickled peppers--
Decides to provide us a solid reminder
Of just what Greatness implies.
The near great never so
Great as Greatness requires.
According to a foremost authority
On pre-Mongol Russian architecture:
“Whip me up some beet soup, Bubala.”
Mike Myers, of course,
Doing “Coffee Talk with Linda Richmond!”
Yeah, a bowl of borscht and a plate of pirozhki.
Feed the stereotype: Ivan, Boris & Natasha,
All obviously Down’s-Syndrome-Feeble-Minded,
Pre-Mongolian Idiotic, as we once said.
Our weltanschauung—
Our World View--
As Good Neighbors Reinhard or Wolfgang,
See the business of global politics.
www.wikipedia.com “The framework of ideas and beliefs forming a global description through which an individual, group or culture watches and interprets the world and interacts with it.”
Thank you, Huns--
Wayne Newton singing:
“Danke schön.”
You always,
Always Hungry Huns.
Danke schön, you Campbell Soup
Man-handler-Hungry Huns,
Fueled on Goethe & Nietzsche,
Zoroaster & ***-ner
Germany:  A Nation of Militarists & Conquistadors,
Just when the Cold War could have been over so quickly,
So prudently averted by asking one simple question:
When have the Russians ever been the
Aggressive party in any conflict?
Be they simple border disputes,
Or true malice aforethought.
Some Napoleonic,
Or Hitlerian.
It was a simple case of HUAC histrionics.
No, decidedly not.
The Near-Great Peter’s was--
If anything--
An Open Door Policy,
A diplomatic Welcome Mat,
A soft squeeze of one’s ball sac,
Pleasant & promising,
“Mi casa es su casa,
Try the Chicken Kiev.”
No Iron Curtain,
If I might, coin a phrase.
But a strong shot of Oswald Spengler,
Pessimistic & carnelian,
Jogs us to Stalin & Khrushchev,
Brezhnev & Putin--
Putin--Vladimir, of that surname--
Perhaps the scariest
Bond villain, yet.
Putin makes a historical first:
Invasion of Crimea.
Invasion of Ukraine.
Maybe those Cold Warrior masterminds,
Actually did us a favor.
(Come out of the closet, J. Edgar.
A retrospective tribute is in the making?
Tom Hanks playing a likable you?)
Tom Clancy & Company
Whipping us up like smoothies,
To fight the good fight,
Noses to the capitalist grindstone,
Building for Divine-Right Nabobs.
New shrines & tombs,
New Coliseums
& Amphitheaters.
New terrible fears of Ivan.
Saul Makabim Aug 2012
Musclebound masked man
maniac mangling most everything he touches
Suicide squad serving the League of Shadows
Venom infuses his insane frame
Villainous tactical masterminds
should never be able to snap spines
and smash skulls
a faceless hulk
surgical tubing and tanks
delivery systems for his calcium crunching extremities
Every Dark Knight has their Bane
brash brutal backbreaker
Such a sordid past
a disaster
You're a slave to the Venom now
how do you live with yourself?
Scarecrow knows
the solace found in affecting fear in others
Poor Bane
insane and in chains
How weak you will become
when they take away your drug.
sobie Mar 2015
My mother raised me under the belief that monotony was a worse state than death and she lived her life accordingly. She taught me to do the same. About five years ago, my mother died. Her death steered my course from any sort of seated, settled life and into a spiral of new experiences.
For months after she left, I skulked about each day feeling slumped and cynical and finding everything and everyone coated in the sickly metallic taste of loss. I noticed that without her I had allowed myself to settle into a routine of mourning. I pitied myself, knowing what she would have thought.  Life was already so different without her there and I couldn’t continue with life as if nothing had happened, so I jumped from my stagnancy in attempts to forget my mother’s name and to destroy the mundane just like she had taught me to. I had to learn how to live again, and I wanted to find something that would always be there if she wouldn’t. I had a purpose. I tried to start anew and drown myself in change by throwing all that I knew to the wind and leaving my life behind.

I was running away from the fact that she had died for a long time. When I first picked up and left, I befriended the ocean and for many months I soaked my sorrows in salt water and *****, hoping to forget. I repressed my thoughts. Mom’s Gone would paint the inside of my mind and I would cover it up with parties and Polynesian women.
I was the sand on the shores of Tahiti, living on the waves of my own freedom. A freedom I had borrowed from nature. A gift that had been given to me by my birth, by my mother. I tried to lose myself in those waves and they treated me with limited respect. More often than not, they kicked me up against their black walls of water. They were made of such immense freedom that many times made me scream and **** my pants in fear, but they shoved loads that fear into my arms and forced me to eventually overcome the burden.
As time slipped by unnoticed, I created routine around the unpredictability of the tides and the cycle of developing alcoholism. One night after a full day of making love to the Tahitian waters, my buddies and I celebrated the big waves by filling our aching bodies with a good bit of Bourbon. By morning time, a good bit of Bourbon had become a fog of drink after drink of not-so-good *****? Gin maybe? I awoke to the sight of the godly sunrise glinting off of the wet beach around me, pitying my trouser-less hungover self. With sand in every orifice, I took a swim to wash me of the night before. I floated on my back in silence while the birds taunted me. I felt the ocean fill every nook and cranny of my body, each pulse of my heartbeat sending ripples through it. My heart was the moon that pressed the waves of my freedom onward and it was sore for different waters. The ache for elsewhere was coming back, and the hole she left in my gut that was once filled with Tahiti was now almost gaping. It had been a beautiful ride in Tahiti but I had not found solace, only distraction. The currents were shifting towards something new.
She had always said that the mountains brought her a solace that she never felt in church. They were her place to pray and they were the gods that fulfilled her. She told me this under the sheets at bedtime as if it were her biggest secret. I had delusional hope that she might be somewhere, she might not be gone. I thought if I would find her anywhere it would be there, up in the clouds on the highest peaks.
The next day, I was on the plane back to the States where I would gather gear. The mountains had called and left a needy voicemail, so I told them I was on my way.

In Bozeman, the home I had run from when I left, every street and friend was a reminder of my childhood and of her. I was only there to trade out my dive mask for my goggles. I had sold most of my stuff and had no house, apartment, or any place of residence to return to except for a small public storage unit where I’d stashed the rest of my goods. Almost everything I owned was kept in a roomy 25 square foot space, the rest was in my duffel. I’d left my pick-up in the hands of my good man, Max, and he returned her to me *****, gleaming, and with the tank full. I took her down to the storage yard and opened my unit to see that everything remained untouched. Beautifully, gracefully, precariously piled just as it was when I left. I transitioned what I carried in my duffel from surf to snow. I made my trades: flip flops for boots, bare chest for base layers, board shorts for snow pants, and of course, board for skis. Ah, my skis… sweet and tender pieces of soulful engineering, how I missed them. They still suffered core-shots and scratches from last season. I embraced them like the old friends they were.
I loaded up the pick-up with all the necessities and hit the road before anyone could give me condolences for a loss I didn’t want to believe. I could not stray from my path to forget her or find her or figure out how to live again. I did not know exactly what I wanted but I could not let myself hear my mother’s name. She was not a constant; that was now true.  

My truck made it half way there and across the Canadian border before I had to set her free. She had been my stallion for some time, but her miles got the best of her. It was only another loss, another betrayal of constancy. I walked with everything on my back until I eventually thumbed my way to the edge of the wild forest beneath the mountains that I had dreamt of. They were looming ahead but I swore I caught a whiff of hope in their cool breeze.
With skis and skins strapped to my feet, I took off into the wilderness. My eyes were peeled looking for something more than myself, and I found some things. There were icy streams and a few fattened birds and hidden rocks and tracks from wolves and barks of their pups off in the distance. But what I found within all of these things was just the constant reminder of my own loneliness.
I spent the days pushing on towards some unknown relief from the pain. On good days there fresh snow to carry me and on most days storms came and pounded me further into my seclusion. The trees bowed heavy to me as I inched forward on my skis, my only loyal companions; I only hoped they would not betray me on this journey. I could not afford to lose any more, I was alone enough. My mother was no where to be found. The snow seemed to miss her too and sometimes I think it sympathized with me.
I spent the nights warmed with a whimpy fire lying on my back in wait hoping that from out of the darkness she would speak to me, give me some guidance or explanation on how I could live happily and wildly without her. Where was this solace she had spoken of? Where was she? She was not with me, yet everything told me about her. The sun sparkled with her laughter, the air was as crisp as her wit, the cold carried her scent. I could feel her embrace around me in her hand-me-downs that I wore. They were family heirlooms that had been passed to her through generations, and then to me. The lives that had been lived in these jackets and sweaters were lived on through me. Though the stories hidden in the seams of these Greats had long been forgotten, died off with their original masters, I could feel the warmth of their memories cradle me whenever I wore them. I cringed to think about what was lost from their lives that did not live on. I was the only one left of my family to tell the world of the things they had done. I was all that was left of my mother. She had left her mark on the world, that was clear. It was a mark that stained my existence.
These forested mountain hills held a tragic beauty that I wish I could have appreciated more, but I felt heavy with heartache. Nature was not always sweet to me. For days storms surged without end and I coughed up crystals, feeling the snowflake’s dendrites tickle at my throat. I had gotten a cold. Snot oozed from my nostrils, my eyes itched, my schnoz glowed pink, my voice was hoarse, and I wanted nothing but to go home to a home that no longer existed. But I chose to go it alone on this quest and I knew the dangers in the freedom of going solo. The winds were strong and the snow was sharp. New ice glazed once powdery fields and the storms of yesterday came again and there was nothing I could do except cower at the magnificence of Nature’s sword: a thing so grand and powerful that it has slayed armies of men with merely a windy slash. I was nature’s *****. I felt no promise in pressing on, but I did so only to keep the snow from burying me alive in my tent.
And I am so glad that I did, because when the great storm finally passed I looked up to see the sky so hopeful and blue bordering the mountains I knew to be the ones I was searching for. I recognized them from the bedtime stories. She had said that when she saw them for the first time that she felt a sudden understanding that all the many hundred miles she’d ever walked were supposed to take her here. She said that the mere sight of them gave her purpose. These were those mountains. I knew because the purpose I had lost sight of came bubbling back out of my aching heart, just as it had for her.

These peaks as barren as plucked pelicans and peacocks, but as beautiful as the feathers taken from them, were beacons in the night for those in search of a world of dreams in which to create a new reality. From them I heard laughter jiggle and echo, hefty and deep in the stomachs of the only people truly living it seemed. When I was scouring the vastness of this wilderness for a sign or a purpose, I followed the scent of their delicious living and I guess my nose led me well.
A glide and a hop further on my skis, there the trees parted and powder deepened and sun shone just a bit brighter. Behind the blinding glare of the snow, faces gleamed from tents and huts and igloos and hammocks. Shrieks of children swinging from branches tickled my ears, which had grown accustomed to the silence of winter. As I approached this camp, I saw they were not kids but grown men and women. It seemed I had stumbled down a rabbit hole while following the tracks of a white jackalope. I had found my world of dreams. I had found them. I had found a home.
I was escaping my lonely, wintery existence into a shared haven perfectly placed beneath the peaks that had plagued my dreams. A place where the only directions that existed were up and down the slopes and forwards to the future. Never Eat Soggy Waffles did not matter anymore. By the end of my time there, I had even forgotten my lefts and rights. The camp had been assembled with the leftovers of the modern world and looked like a puzzle with mismatched pieces from fifty different pictures. At first glance, it could have been a snow covered trash heap, but there was a sentimental glow on each broken appliance that told me otherwise. Everything had a use, though it was not usually what was intended. The homes of these families and friends were made of tarp or blankets or animal hides and had smelly socks or utensils or boots or bones hanging from their openings. There were homemade hot springs made of bathtubs placed above fires with water bubbling. Unplugged ovens buried in snow and ice kept the beer cooled. Trees doubled as diving boards for jumping into the deep pits of powder around them. The masterminds behind this camp were geniuses of invention and creation. Their most impressive creation was their lifestyle; it was one that had been deemed impossible by society. This place promised the solace I had been searching for.
A hefty mass of man and dogs galumphed its way through the snow. Rosy cheeks and big hands came to greet me. This was Angus. His face grew a beard that scratched the skies; it was a doppelganger to the mossy branches above us. But his smile shone through the hairs like the moon. There are people in this world whose presence alone is magic, an anomaly among existence. Angus was one of them. Not an ounce of his being made sense. The gut that hung from his broad-shouldered bodice was its own entity and it swung with rhythms unknown to any man; it was known only to the laughter that shook it. Gently perched atop this, was his shaggy white head that flew backwards and into the clouds each time he laughed, which was often. Angus fathered and fed the folks who’d found their way to this wintery oasis, none of which were of the ordinary. There was a lady with snakes tattooed to her temples, parents who’d birthed their babies here beneath the full moon, couples who went bankrupt and eloped to Canada, men and women who felt the itch just as me and my mother had. The itch for something beyond the mundane that left us unsatisfied with life out in the real world. All of them came out of their lives’ hardships with hilarious belligerence and wit, each with their own story to tell. The common thread sewn between all these dangerous minds was an undeniable lust for life.
The man who represented this lust more than any other was Wiley and wily he was. He’d seen near-death countless times and every time he saw the light at the end of the tunnel, he would run like a fool in the other direction. He lived on borrowed time. You could see that restlessness driving him in each step he took. Each step was a leap from the edges of what you thought possible. Wiley was a man of serious grit, skill, and intelligence and never did he let his mortality shake him from living like the animal he was. He’d surely forgotten where and whence he came from and, until finding his way here, had made homes out of any place that offered him beer and some good eatin’. Within moments of shaking hands, he and I created instant brotherhood.
The next few days turned into months and I eventually lost track of time all together. I could have stayed there forever and no day would have been the same. I played with these people in the mountains and pretended it was childhood again. We lived with the wind and the wildness the way my mother had once shown me how to live. I had forgotten how to live this way without her and I was learning it all over again. We awoke when we pleased and trekked about when weather permitted, and sometimes when it didn’t. Each day the sun rose ripe with opportunities for new lines to ski and new peaks to explore. The backcountry was ours and only ours to explore. We were its residents just like the moose and the wolves. My body grew stinky and hairy with joy and pushed limits. Hair that stank of musk and days of labor was washed only with painful whitewashes courtesy of Wiley. Generally after a nice run, we’d exchange them, shoving each other’s faces deep into the icy layers of snow, which would be followed with some hardy wrestling. By the end of each day, if we didn’t have blood coming out of at least two holes in our faces then it wasn’t a good day.
I never could wait to get my life’s adventures in and here I was having them, recalling the unsatisfied ache I had before I left. Life was lost to me before. I had forgotten how to live it after she had died. Modern monotony had taken control until my life became starved of genuine purity and all that was left then was mimicry. But the hair grown long on these men and smiles grown large on these woman showed no remembrance of such an earth I had come from. They had long ago cast themselves away from such a society to relish in all they knew to be right, all their guts told them to pursue: the truth that nature supplies. Still I worried I would not remember these people and these moments, knowing how they would be ****** into the abyss of loss and time like all the others. But we lived too loud and the sounds of my worries were often drowned in fun.
     We spent the nights beside the fire and listened to Wiley softly plucking strings, that was when I always liked to look at Yona. Her curls endlessly waterfalled down her chest and the fire made her hair shimmer gold in its glow. She was the spark among us, and if we weren’t careful she could light up the whole forest.  She was a drum, beating fast and strong. Never did she lose track of herself in the clashing rhythms of the world. She had ripped herself from the hands of the education system at a young age and had learned from the ways of the changing seasons f
Jack Touchet Mar 2012
Such sweet songs
Fall from faces full
Of open
Hearts holding hands.
Generally great groups gather
Quixotic questions,
Ponder personal perceptions,
Emulating ever entranced emotions.
Love loses leaps, leaves
Broad bruises bypassing
Catastrophically closed creations.
What wonder, what wildly whimsical
Rejoice remains?
In individualistic idioms.
As all allowed anatomical
Differences deal dictations,
Juxtaposed jesters join
Monstrous masterminds
Trivially tinkering, tryingly,
Near non-subjective nothingness
Under unusual
Vectors. Vivisecting voracious,
Zeppelin-esque, zygotes,
Xenophobic
Yodels yell,
"****! **** kindheartedness!"
A wide and expanding world dilate our technology,
revolutionary thoughts and conflict initiate an evolving psychology.

Simplicity in life no longer here as we form double personalities nearly on in the same, as we all have an assumed second name.

Simplicity in life sacrificed for evolution and integrated minds, or is this just the plan of humankind's masterminds?

We forget the health and happiness of past struggle, as todays anxious, depressed, and integrated minds smuggle in double trouble.
A non-conventional look at the current state of globalization, including both pros and cons. Whats your opinion?
Alexandra Floyd May 2014
Passively Pacify Our Minds
Lil Wayne Is Our Guide
Willie Lynch’s Spirit
Masterminds his Rhymes

Spirits Full of Hate
Played Out on Mixtapes
Ancient Ideologies Perpetuate

As we greedily devour
Beats that makes us
Forfeit Our Power

Physically we are free
But our minds are in 1793
Archaic ideologies
chain thee
Miko Oct 2011
I'd let you put your hand on my chest and tell you to close your eyes and see the kingdoms beneath my skin. Caverns and tunnels left barren and untouched, ready to be discovered, lie in wait for intrusion and the human touch. All these roads and back alleys follow up into the intersection of my heart and sanity. "You built this world on dreams, bricked fantasies and concrete love" you would say, if we existed. But if I did the same, would there be paper walls or wall paper skin? Would there be a barrier to entry or the warmest welcome yet to be given to me?

       I would love to be your dream house, and play all the roles of the pieces inside, trying to be all the functions you need and deserve and use to survive. If I knocked, would you let me in? For our hearts are brittle oragami folding and unfurling in our chests; our life supply, so soft inside these metallic apparatus's we operate on demand. I will be ready to operate whenever you wish and my metallic lips will kiss you and our lives will never rust.

       We've built these systems of ourselves, our clock work hearts, our factories of suspicion, and our steel vaults concealing our trust. We will go far; the farthest leagues whether it stretch arms length and beyond, or a thousand leagues below the most hungry and sleepy sea.

       We'll build our own worlds. I myself have this Empire Heart; it beats for the people, but it beats most importantly for you. With me, you'll never be alone. Sometimes the clouds swoop in at night, blocking out your view of the stars, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. I'm always here. I am an everyday forecast. Desolation will never be an option when I exist in your world or in your dreams.

       This world with a purpose, while purposefully perilous paths deter from direction, intersects and overlaps to create a maze built by masterminds. I refuse to romanticize with this belief though I will play along and remove myself stage left when I feel the need to be absolutely necessary. Time and goodbyes must conspire in order to keep the assembly line frantically recycling. So much movement for a planet that leads us to believe we're standing still, but then again, this world was built for me and you and is hidden in the confines of my hearts reality. I've simply been living in a dream about you. Would you taint something beautiful to make it perfect? Or would you destroy something perfect to make it beautiful? That's how this world is and the human version of "reality" fascinates me; It entails nothing really. So long as you alter every microscopic detail to standardised fraud. To think all this is encased in the refines of my cage like chest.
A freewrite (yes I know, not poetry), a work in progress and like most everything I write
Mark Tilford Nov 2015
One of a kind???

To be undermined
As this earth is redesigned
by so called masterminds
The future predefined
becoming unaligned
and a lot less kind
The direction does not have to be underlined
The evils has all combined
To define the fate
of Mankind
The divine it seems
confined
Mankind has lost it's  faith
Now it's only about cyberspace
So much time with this we waist  
Is it upper case or lower case
is it in the database ???
It will be the down fall of the human race
You wait!!
Can't you see how it dominates
It will detonate
Mankind
As we overpopulate
We need to reevaluate
the direction of
Mankind
!!
This poem of mine trended and it was not finished ...Wow ..Thank you
I posted it by mistake .....
Tommy Johnson Jan 2015
The meeting of the minds is taking place in a booth in the back corner or the pub with those beer nuts you like so much

The Cheapskate
The Peddler
The Chiseler
The Swindler
And The Big Shot

Originally it was supposed to just me the Big Shot and the Peddler
Then the Chiseler squirmed his way into the scheme
Since three was already a crowd no one protested to the company of the Swindler and The Cheapskate

"Around of scotch for my homies!" says The Big Shot to the barmaid
The Cheapskate turned pale and whispers into The Big Shot's ear

"Four scotches and a tap water!" The Big Shot called out

The last time these five character went in on something together it turned into a huge power struggle

The Big Shot got too big for his britches
The Swindler tampered with the numbers
As he and The Chiseler blamed the blame game
While the Peddler was managing the tensions and just trying to get all he could off his hands
And the Cheapskate putting as little as he could in to get as much as he could out of the whole thing

Those were their salad days
Wheeling and dealing
What a shame they never came out clean
At all
Such a shame

But this time they will not repeat the trauma
They're in it to win it
The sweepstakes scam of the century
The feel good moment

They all knew none of them got along
But they had to get on with it

The plan was intricate
First the Chiseler would take every love letter intended for a physicist
Then rewrite in as a hate note
Upon reading the phony expression of disdain
The physicist would dive into his work to get his mind off it
And develop his studies of String Theory

Then The Swindler would buy the theory from the broken hearted egghead with the money The Peddler made from selling the spinning squares that make a dizzying circle he got at wholesale from his guy in Cairo

The Cheapskate would then gather a few undesirables from the abandoned paper factory and have them ransack The Physicist's lover's house and hold at gun point to have her cough up a few of her ***** little secrets which include the fact she had been sleeping with The Big Shot

The Big Shot would at that point step in and end things with the Physicist's Lover and tell her it was because she could even protect the material things she owned
Which made him question if she could guard and protect his heart

So The five masterminds would have the rights and royalties to The Physicist's String Theory, his lover's every last belonging, The Peddler's wacko drugs and his connection and a few of The Lover's unmentionables
Plus the Big Shot gets to get laid

Not bad for five guys who couldn't get along

And not a single cop out or snide remark thrown

Thusly it was agreed upon with a five-way spit hand shake that if anything would happen that could incriminate any of them, The Swindler would answer for everything with his feet on the ground
Because the Chiseler had Plan B which involved a jailbreak
When the thirst for knowledge sees no boundaries, the love for learning seeks no peripheries
The humble mind becomes your pen and on the pages of life you write every now and then .

Dwell not in past glory make your life a interesting story!
A story you are proud about entitled to happiness without doubt.
Spread the wings of joy go out there and enjoy .

Trust in the masterminds Oracle , for you are nothing short of a miracle !

©Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Oracle #simple# rhyme# peripheries
Simple rhymed poem while waiting to pick my son  from school  ,a quick thought jotted into a poem.
16.02.2019
alxndra Jan 2015
masterminds behind the lies
have hid the horrors in disguise

this deceptive act of lying
can now be found without trying

disbelief
the temporary relief
to all corruption has to hide

I won't be fooled another time
I won't forget the choice is mine

each entree served on your platter
is nothing short of a disaster
ignorance offers no bliss
let honesty serve as your guide
She had a pyrrhic victory
Against the ******* masterminds
Who had her children’s lives by the tips of their fingers
And blew air of fear and dependency into their lungs.

A mother of many;
She has children of vast kinds
Segregated from all corners
By dissimilar cultures and tongues.

From the meat-loving Ovaherero in the center, northwest and east,
To the vaCaprivi, vaKavango and Ovambo in the north and northeast with their villas
To the Khoikhoi in the south with their unique communication,
She mothers them all with equal loving.            

She is beloved for her beautiful contrast;
Rivers, mountains, flat plains and savannahs
Not to overlook the merging of the desert and ocean.
She truly is wonderful, beautiful and compelling.

Her name is Namibia.
My birth country
its hard to fine a freind.
when your dreams are moveing like leaves in the wind.

there is no wilder course
such as a lonely iron horse

there's no crazyer footpath
till you feel my falling wrath.

my feelings are like water
curous this dagger of fracture.

takeout my beaten pass my broken heart
departed from the impart of my sweetheart.

you will have one of humankinds
masterminds of one!
broken Jan 2016
ART
the street was as dark as our hearts in a cold October that made everyone shiver until they couldn't feel their toes. it hasn't snowed, but the sun had been asleep for years it seemed. the orange glow from flickering street lights fit our complexions like the shade of lipstick your mother liked to wear to the silly school award ceremonies that even we skipped out on. the night was dark and those lights danced across our skin like we were nothing more than two pale canvases. and that makes sense to me because you had always reminded me of an art exhibit. greens and blues and ***** grays with birthmarks and freckles and scars that were sometimes by accident and sometimes not. they had given your display case the perfect amount of little spotlights because I couldn't see a single flaw. every line was perfectly contoured and the texture of you felt perfect against every inch of my body. I had the sudden idea that I could never reach anything better than what I had in the warm crooks of your elbows. my mind became convinced that you were the Mona Lisa to that small town, and I was only a pencil sketch, but display cases always make things look prettier than they seem and lighting can be deceiving if masterminds know how to angle the rays. I was blinded by those pretty display case beams like I was stunned by those walnut avenue street lamps the night we danced in the dark and you told me about how your mother taught you half the constellations before you were five and that my eyes reminded you of the brightest stars that night. but stars always explode and that's what mine did in the art showcase that was so misleading to me from the start of it all. you had a frame as glowing as the gold streaks of Midas. but somehow, wooden splinters came out of a gold frame the afternoon you expressed in angry screams that you were fine, even though I could see the breaking of your glass heart. you were beautiful, more so than dragonfly wings or water color portraits. you were a new genre, we are a new artistic creation and we belong in galleries, locked up tight because we can't trust ourselves not to fall over or shatter or spill our own colors onto beautiful pieces and end up ruining them. you spilt your paint splatters all over me, didn't you? I saw a masterpiece covered in stardust and I tried to touch it, even though it wasn't mine. I put my fingerprints all over that mess of creativity and genius, and it left a mark on me too... you left a mark on me. my hands hurt and my heart ached and I wondered what kind of chemical they put in those acrylic paints, but it wasn't until I backed away, covered in your greens and blues and dusty shades of gray, coughing up all types of maroon, that I read the sign below your breathtaking display case:
    do not touch
Kiprotich vinny Jul 2018
I am always in the other side of law,
Crime is part of me,
I don't care even a bit,
I was born in the slums, where crime is a daily chore,
Perhaps that is why I am who I am

My thoughts are all about pushing someone to the wall,
All because I am a victim of destiny
I wonna get there 'dead' or alive,
Destiny which has been tempered with,

In crime hypocrites masterminds my downfall,
I know them pretty well,
Involved in almost every kind of sin, I have learned a thing
Though in crime, change is another hard story
My performance in it's inner sanctum has never been in doubt,
Gourab Banerjee Apr 2016
Reputed MNC
We are Slave
Masterminds we're
Having first class
Shame to be Beggar
Proud to be Slave
Proud son of Mother
We're Corporate-Written on 09.04.2013
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
How can happiness abound
When hungry kids are around
How can I sleep knowing well
They live in a complete hell
How can I be proud of myself
If I have a pitiful story to tell
How can I turn a blind eye
When a child is blind in one eye

Because their day begins and ends badly
Every day they wake up very early
To collect dunks from malnourished cows
Who can no longer do the daily plows
Grace to the condition of the arid soil
On which the family would have to toil.
So...
How can I go to bed at night
Knowing something's not right?
How can I retire to a deep sleep
When those alive can no longer weep.

Because their lives were beyond broken
When for lights they look up to Akon
Because their leaders don't care about them
All masterminds of a rather brutal clem
The Notorious, heartless and evil warlords
Who became wealthy and turned landlords
It breaks my heart to see wartime millionaires
Keeping their dead brother's bones as souvenirs
So ..
How can I hesitate to expose this evil
By these heartless sons of the devil
How can I allow my voice to be silenced,
When power sharing is not yet balanced.
Why shouldn't I feel very bad,
When their angelic eyes are sad?

©️IvanBrookspoetry
How can live knowing things aren't right.
Mark Tilford Jul 2016
I have some questions
I want take much of your time

What is up with this world ??
Why can't man see others needs ??
When did it become about me, me, me ??
When did mankind become so blind ??
With such closed minds
When did they become so unkind ??
When did they become disinclined ??
Why did they start leaving so many people behind ??
When did they stop listening to you ??
And
Start listening to the so called masterminds
When was the exact moment they started
their decline ??
When did they fall from your grace ??
At such a fast pace
When did they lose face ??
How did they become such a disgrace ??
Have you been watching this crazy political race ??
Are you ashamed of this place
It was once your showplace
When did they decide it's not worth fighting for ??
When did they forget you are Lord
Do they not realize after this
there is so much more
It's our reward
Maybe not
Because they are so inclined
to destroy
this
World
??
Jen Sep 2018
Replaced,
Paradigm,
Shifted
With a downpour
In the night.

Souls,
Taking flight.

Years from now,
Upon steel plates,
High above us-
Masterminds
Displaced.

Our intelligence
Obsolete,
As artificial
Ingenuity
Breaks-   free.

Taking control
Of Us.

Paradigm Shift,
All around,
Dismantling
Every thought
That ever
Meant
Anything.

Is everything that
They
Hypothesized
To be
Rewritten
By machines?

As they take over all we see.

What will we be?
It’s already happening…
Arlene Corwin Jan 2019
A little bored with myself, and feeling I needed the practice so as not to be stuck in a stagnation of inspiration I wrote: for other poets, becoming-poets and readers of anything:

                  POETRY IS THE MEANS ✍️

Poetry is the means
To viewing thought in new perspectives,
Finding more about the self,
Separating strength from weakness,
Plus from minus.
Each and every poet is
A deus
           ex machina.

Never literal,
A giant symbol
It a sign, it helps refine, define
A person’s true persona,
Things not known before the poem,
And the poet had no notion,
No ability to see
The deep, the silly,
*****-nilly-ness yet miracle of mind,
Its mysteries with tints and hints
Of revelations previously owned
By sages, holy men and masterminds.
Everything the human misses
In the daily-nesses of existence.

Poetry gives everything a gift can give:
Reward a push toward inner riches;
Means to keep reader in stitches;
Better stock of words not least;
Poetry is priest and beast and feast,
Grist for the mill
Of keeping still:
An agency of beauty.
That is poetry.

Poetry Is The Means 1.12.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; Arlene Nover Corwin
Descovia Dec 2021
In peace only war can be solved
So in war only peace can be the resolve

I am feeling lost. Disconnected. Just like the internet, social media is the only form or connection we all have to the outside world from within our homes. Where we live inside electronical boxes of despair and entertainment. If you ask me, some versions of pastime joys of amusement are disasters for poison in disguise, to me that's "entertaintment". It's all taking over, it's taking everything from people day by day. Families bring their devices to the table as well as conversation and appetites.

They deserve not to be deprived of pleasure, it's the best medicine for discomfort and pain, it also helps you understand it. To the contrary, when you're trapped in the matrix,  you lose touch of reality! The time being plugged into the tv, phone, computer can damage you as much as a diet without proper nutrition.

The system itself would not understand the struggles and complications we all endure, using our very own time for days to work. We are worth more than dimes, dollars and the deviled design of government masterminds, that profit from us being taken advantage of!  

No system can compute the emotional confrontations of daily duties having to live amongst constant geographical changes, racism, disease, violence and technological modifications. In a world where software and hardware ages, still running good as new, contrary to our youth slowly leaves us while living.  Going through all with fake smile and forgetting we can stop pretending, fate will connect ties with a force outside of life, to bring us to a place where the return policy on your living essence cannot be renewed to it's previous state.

Allowing one self to drift in and out of a peaceful mindset
As you're traveling through a passage with a lever
Only floating down the stream as a stick
Try to switch your fate as a fix
in a world, the waters is like a soothing river bank
Away into the uneasy essence crashing into the back of your brain.
Like the spotted webs that connect us all in this world
Let the powers of my ancestors reign
In peace only war can be solved
So in war only peace can be the resolve
Gloria, Kimberly Anduaga, C.J, NateDaniel & Descovia collaboration.
Shruti Atri Jul 2021
Run
I run from end to end,
chased away at every bend;
I fall and I falter
and for my faults I alter
my self...

it is their say that decides,
whether a monster resides
in my soul...

A soul that is played
For my innocence is slayed--
they laugh at their profanity,
the ***** dogs, the *******;
the masterminds behind my insanity...

...
Dealing with demons within...
David Zavala Nov 2018
sinners: his cane dislodged

l

Cane:

To an awake friend, he said mesmerized "rest on gorgeous fields are made for soccer players,"

The motion analogy is the lake or the river, at the school, reminds me of that the left row of made of pink lamps is still a malls sweat on their knees, whose above?

I lift your nudged fox to the women with the air filled with music in your clothes

Chicago is today, sick of the warm color warmed colored walnut an elementary something, happy by troubled, world only only world, enter my vision of art - the movie set, really,  

At the table, Socrates came from out of the cave,
of the center opened of the like a snoring beast snoring beast,
up staircases inside the small indent of the university, legs-crossed, lectures partially complete, and contemplated a 4 winged bird which leapt from the ground: cone-less and timeless.  

Frank Sinatra is on center stage, the square, literally, like being the poetess naked in the garden, singing with her husband went missing for several days reciting Shakespeare.

Eden, no that Eden, Eden is gorgeous and mothers multiple their eggs in wombs, they are birds, by way of television - sick of that rhythm, inside the history of museums, public images paint delicately.

                               Fathers are all brilliant and masterminds, the inside of the skyline fits my heart,

Driving to the national rabbit we liked the peanuts which were snacks and
saw walrus near the ocean with non-fury legs, their paws with peaches, pinks from schools like sugar Montessories, whole swarms of bees learning that John Ashberry's  mind used mine to mind dollars bills he finds off the street in New York to tell you that you should learn what a unit is. Close the world, close the window in the other room and when you to go to work and maybe to bring a snack where creativity is here and there. I see differently the trees and red wheel-barrow. My water bottle is purified and the reverse is the Cosmos on calcium. I want more chloride and sodium - make that ingredient good, good enough for your doctor, good enough for me, a cake for us, and faster because Arkansas is always walking, it is plastered rich sandwiches, missing girls are little and little on TV, the bud of a flower is a direction.

Space is big but my things are spill proof, the pumpkin we seed inside the my house next to the popcorns guitars are colored blue and fall immutably pulling loudly from men, in their canes, shaven cane, clean cane, looking at me looking at the portrait saying, I can see the red and blue in black and the dove sits on the statue on Monday and flew in cold from Alaska over whole towns, and the bird said, yes the bird said, he said "A fisherman saw, he was bearded and arrived on Friday, photos on the ground, animals are outside, libraries filled with no books and no their indexes leading to prologues that Freud says is moral but I've been saying better and reasoning that her makeup is missing and no shampoo in the bathroom, blush hands up in Vegas, fold - our cars are stuck on the highways means is leaving the only bar that is yellowish only from blue painters who paint with their paint brushes such that ballet dancers contemplate their watch. The Nutcracker and Animal Farm are complete. Bearded and braided black man, your is hair completely skinless in San Francisco which I've been to for two weeks because the back of the pack on back of the feet of the ton of the ground street lights guide us to a single number such is an exciting job opportunity, inside classroom, the difference is I'm in the front, how ludic it is, isn't it? Get dressed or get in we're going dancing. Drive or I can drive only to recognize a slip of free will, you're in white, the forums we enjoy are for professors which are only in my mind and therefore sprung forth whenever I want them. There are a couple of whole armies giving trees, Dr. Pink wants motion to activate a concert such that I like the words operraeta and subscribing to the dictionary, Mainly up is laughing are diamonds in hands in apartments are feet and hands, and almost wind, fire, water, turning from distance brothers and cowards uses his left hand and experiences sleep and whole days in a single sentence. It's cruel really to be beautiful and no I don't feel back for you. Your just a memory of him riding the shopping cart down the aisle of HEB - insight into psychologist's events - welcomed with nobility bowing down near the single article, sitting in front of our produced and not free laptops, their machines were used to make paintings and sculptures, thousand of journalists in their ties dress with microscopes in front of classrooms like a style that is thoughtful, high on salamanders, wait salamanders? No, a sad living room examining a firefly is a history of museums, it is useless. It is a calm waterfall, it is back from the seminary, it back from the river we sat at before inside of a conference room near downtown, the light of love produced kayaks.

We currently sit younger pondering an ice rink made of children dressed for Halloween, a few feathers but I know down on my injured fence after a tornado came in and placed beautiful women, their naked bodies and all, are here as a college student staying awake from both for Sundays and U-HAULs are only like criminal floats down the formed uselessness of that jars of pennies. But we selected! Entertained and busy, working, on a math problem from universities, I was reading Einstein earlier, bought it and profoundly expressed I am personally interested in Dvorak's String Quintet in B major Op. 77. That is, while watching YouTube videos of mysterious friendly characters although I'm standing naked in a bathroom, a peacock created the world, leaves fell, fire on the dirt, it doesn't burn too bad, does it? We pose another  question, to what sickness can I stand on a bench suit jacket, ill-fitted and have a friend say to me, you look like a philosopher?

I stick my leg out quietly because clouds coolly that day spent on wooden tables is possible and not meant to able to assuage the sun even for you school bus, actual school bus, hiding from large groups of people scared while the congregation sits praying,

Even for you, helmet,
On a football field, orange Spain leant me a hande, our dogs were not beside us though while Mr. Grinch sits in his apartment, editors don't want him pulling flowers from, for example, the baseball fields, doing baseball players are plays catcher, dresses in the same uniform totally is mesmerized by how water becomes ice, such that the eye bending time like a green cactus, objects and mountains and the insides of the restaurants, eight o clock evening dinners,

Dancing with angels the devil is ugly, trains go through time and say biology is easier than white picket fences, it makes me sad, it should make me sad, but there is new hope.

So more difficult the white flower is the candle menacing number 3 thousands of logically lettered alphabets for the alphabets, and for her, waiting at trees rooted but you know, construction men leaving everything at that grocery store where I can sit down and wouldn't buy a lottery ticket, sorry.

II  

Dislodged:

Entering my vision are tragedies
collages of white photos
eat our sons
              we
           swarm
          predators
          slowly
          down
             the
            street
                is
                a
             cigarette
                  is
busting friends out of apartments into huge houses after coming from grocery stores, passing fields, outside and zoos visited, jealous of her offices,
200 page completed novels completed, my way home, it's our problem really, but that comma coulda dressed in a suit, coulda been someone must run the title of his license plate

III

Cane Dislodged:

Settle down, the movie sat at the bar is dumb, i sit alone, I sit alone, still I sit alone, I sit alone. Tea from down the street is expensive so
we can't believe that the founders of the Quakers movement did that and that they are made in the image of empires such that a body ignorant because smudged paintings are the mouse, right?
artisticAR Sep 2020
Life moves you along, its destination unknown
In melodies of songs, draped in liquid tone
Some harsh, some soft, some mere whispers
To taunt you to doodle, create your own figure
Which will make you unique, one of a kind
In a world, thirsty for leaders, and
masterminds

.....amp
Ryan O'Leary Jan 2023
Mother Russia


  Matriarch a multipolar world

end the monopoly of imperial

   multinationals, march your

military exterminate magnates

  moguls and masterminds of

the evil destinies betrothed us.
Charlie Keen Oct 2020
Periodically
It is easier to put on a façade
That makes it seem as though your persona is comedy

Most masterminds behind the laughter
Are easily the ones who are best at

Pretending

— The End —