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there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at ****** are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to **** you
to **** anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art
Francie Lynch Mar 2014
(the tics will talk 'til twelve o'clock)

When we make time,
When we listen:

The theistic preach deistic talk;
The atheistic preach pragmatic talk;
The agnostic preach proleptic talk;
The heretic preach shismatic talk;
The mystic preach prophetic talk.
(the mesianic and satanic never stop)

When we have time;
Then we listen:

The optimistic teach hypnotic talk;
The pessimistic teach sarcastic talk;
The altruistic teach empathetic talk;
The idealistic teach synergistic talk;
The pacifistic teach semantic talk;
The body politic teach charismatic talk;
The technocratic teach robotic talk;
The romantic teach poetic talk;
The critic teach cathartic talk;
The moralistic teach dualistic talk;
The ascetic teach platonic talk.
(the artist would rather not talk)

When we find time,
Do we listen:

The lunatic speak quizzotic talk;
The neurotic speak pathetic talk;
The chauvanistic speak monistic talk;
The nihilistic speak ballistic talk;
The hedonist speak narcissistic talk;
The futuristic speak galactic talk.
(the minimalist hasn't the time to talk)

Just don't.

Look.
Some tic reset the clock.
tic toc, tic toc, we all run round the clock.
Michael ayodeji Mar 2018
PREACHER MAN

What  use is of a sound?
Which fails to marry the dancer step
What good is of a song
Which does not appeal to the ear
What good is a sermon
Which does not remind man of empyrean

A singer is as good as his song
A preacher is as good as his sermon
But what good use is both him and his handwork
When they are egregious
With no iota of morality

Sermon that is mendacious
Therefore, preach me no more your sermon of insanity
Because when you preach it
I see lugubrious faces of men of my race
Because when you preach it
I see deluge of blood of slaughtered men of my nation
Because when you preach it
I hear the wailing of the native of the street

Preach me not the sermon of democracy
Also when you ring the gingle of your sermon into my hearing
The death of justice and truth
Rings in chambers of my mind

Preach me not the sermon of democracy
When it is kakistocracy
Preach me not the sermon of bravery
When they are never seen

Preacher man
Preach me not your sermon
Until it is innoxious

By
Ayodeji Lawson lawmyk
©2018
Madds May 2012
BLEE
         EE
              EE
                   EED!
Dig that ******* razor DEEPER into your wrists.
Practice what you preach, and show us you're not afraid.
Don't just scratch with a pin and claim to slash them.
Practice what you preach. Practice what you preach.
uwihadkd I don't know.
Tryst Apr 2015
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
When snarling winter packs hunt down the old;
Push them away and shun them from your door

Feed hungry souls with sermons and rapport,
Old shepherds, keep your flocks unto the fold;
Preach poverty and patience to the poor

When heaven's snow attests to hallowed floor
And beggars plead for mercy from the cold,
Push them away and shun them from your door

When hungry children cry 'a little more'
And clamour forth with rusted tins they hold,
Preach poverty and patience to the poor

When brothers, plague and famine, reach the shore,
The weak and dying seek to be consoled;
Push them away and shun them from your door

When paupers come with frosted feet to thaw,
And fill the hall to hear kind words unfold:
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
Push them away and shun them from your door
Sully Nov 2014
A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet
The rest of us are weak
as newborn puppies,
from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs
But, mostly from laughter.

This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly
And he's preaching
Prosthelytizing

Three minutes before,
he had been happily day dreaming
Three feet from the floor
with the ****-tube beaming
happy
simple
moving colors

The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken
Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.

But with the fire coming up that glass pipe
and setting his boiler to churn along feverish
He caught an insight
or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path

On his feet
He was beginning to see connections
And had to share them with someone
Now

I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high
Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial

Oh, my friend.
You're talking to the wrong audience
We can't hope to see it as you do.

But he keeps on keeping on.
And tells us a thing or two.

Cooking
He says
Is like ***.

As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues

The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary
to give you countless subtle differences.
But the true constant is care
Loving attention to the finest detail.

His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug
and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.

Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says.
We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen
But in the moment, the twanging instant
Beautiful things will themselves to exist
and they defy all well-laid plans.
And that's the point of all life isn't it? Eat well. Have great ***. Everything else is just another step towards that end.
RH 78 Sep 2015
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Washed up.
Lifeless.
All for a new life too far to reach?

Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Terrorists
Heartless.
What happened to the human rights we all preach?

Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Traffickers.
Gangs.
Displacing people no home and no speech.

Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
A son.
No future.
We hang our heads and weep!
Broken hearted and deeply affected by pictures I saw in the news depicting the lifeless body of a little boy no older than three who was photographed washed up on the shore line of Turkey. The result of further illegal human smuggling, people trafficking promising to get families to Europe on a false promise. All too often, people are put into small boats unable to sustain the weight of all the people put upon it and not fit for purpose. This is yet another shocking event in the wake of atrocities taking place in North Africa where the displacement of millions of innocent people continues. Governments are too busy counting the pennies and quarrelling amongst themselves in addition to wasting precious time as gangs and smugglers take advantage of the situation by sending people to their death profiting from the desperation of families searching for a place to call home. When will this end? RIP to the little boy, his brother and mother who all perished.
Styles Aug 2018
We keep coming together, you killing me, it's a dead heat. *** so good, we can hardly speak. Climbing on top, she's reaching her peak. Skirt no *******, she hide, I seek. Ready or not, here she ****, and I practice what I preach. Locked myself inside her, finders keep. If the meek inherits her world, I guess that makes me weak.
Cunning Linguist Apr 2017
S
  p
   i
  r
a
l
   i
   n
g

   d
    o
   w
      n
-
[an
infinite
abyss]
-
A temporal anomaly
peaking your drift
Perusing the cosmos,
within Dude's rocketship

Quarantined as a species
from contact with the Gods-
Odds are they're too busy banging
new milky ways into the stars
While you're pensive, quantum-plating
the nature of existence
Prayers fall unto deaf ears
too apathetic to listen

Godspeed towards the rift,
Time bends at the edge of a black hole
-But only the tip

My seeds melt into the motherverse
So I get down on it,
Cunning Linguist eats his words
Oedipus'd be jealous,
In slow motion
Impregnates spacetime itself;
With a big bang fellatious 
 
Thus, the holy seed of life
Was ****** into the void~~~
Perpetuating strife
Into the *****, of beyond

Its not a paradox if you simply process
0 and 1 at once
1 can go into 0
as many times as it wants

8====D~~(Y)

Preach level = Jim Jones
just the punchline's too long
Your golden idol,
Holy ****,
Bless this nut that I bust
I'll stretch my luck
To the sum of existence
Until it comes full circle

Voracious, bodaciously
Spatial in stasis
Without patience
Inseminating your eyeholes
Through lines of text

Transcendental
Entangled in a
  Δ,
With a devil & angel
Dimensions oughta coalesce
At just the right angle

Y'all haven't the wherewithal
To feel my *****
Slap-happy against one's skull
Put the rock in the hard place
Neanderthal
Meander tall, in the wave of thought,
The photons in your DNA are all but shot

I will abduct your subconscious
To probe through your thoughts
* testing Testing *
are you turned on?
Feel your genitals tingling ~~
I'm simultaneously dichotomic
Jerxin off my dingaling
playing your heartstrings like a harp

Allow me to go deeper
& penetrate your very reason for being.
Is the life that you're seeing
-Just the information eyes are receiving
-Only what your mind is perceiving
-Abstract thought is just too deceiving no
Can you even conceive it?

Why bother

Wanna switch positions
so you can see
where I'm coming from?
Go ahead and tell me,
are the heavens not
what you've dreamt of

A smoldering ember
in a once burning sky
Life of a former divine,
Masquerading as an angel of light
A furnace see:
 **nihl
Tethered,
To the nethers
On the outskirts of the universe
Big Virge Jul 2019
Let Me Make This ...
  
... CLEAR To You ... !!!  
    
I'm NOT PREACHING ...  
That's The ... TRUTH ... !!!!  
    
You ...  
DON'T Have To Read ...  
If You ... Don't Want To ... !!!  
    
Trust Me On This ... !!!  
If You Don't ... That's Cool ...  
    
I'm Just ...  
Passing On ... My Views ...  
Just Like ... " Politicians Do " ...  
    
Those You VOTE FOR ... !!!  
Who ... ***** YOU ... ?!?  
    
Can't I Say ...  
What's ON My Mind ... ???  
    
I Guess NOT ...  
In ... " Modern Times " ... ?!?  
    
These Are Times ...  
Like ... " Days of Old " ...  
    
When Blacks Were ... "Slaves" ...  
    
" DO WHAT YOU'RE TOLD ! "  
    
Things In TRUTH ...  
Are STILL ... The Same ...  
    
When Things Go WRONG ...  
" WE'RE THE ONES  " ...    
Who ... Take The BLAME ... !!!  
    
Am I ... " Preaching " ...  
Yet AGAIN ... !?!  
    
Sorry Folks ...  
You Should COMPLAIN ... !!!  
    
While MORE Blacks ...  
Just Go ... "INSANE" ... !!!  
cos' of ... PRESSURES ...  
ON OUR ... Brain ...  
    
I Don't Live ...  
Like ... Most of You ...    
    
That's Why I Write ...  
The Way I Do ...  
    
So ...  
When You ... READ ...  
DON'T Say ... I PREACH ... !!!  
    
It's ... My Time ...  
To Write In ... Rhyme ...  
    
This Goes Back ...  
To My ... Earlier Line ...  
    
DON'T Say I PREACH ...  
and We'll Be Fine ... !!!  
    
One Thing I've Learnt ...  
About ... Mankind ...  
Is ... Blacks CAN'T SAY ...  
What's ON ... " Their Mind " ...  
    
cos' White Folks KNOW ...  
The ... " Grand Design " ...  
    
This ... MUST MEAN ...  
That I CAN'T Teach ... !!!  
But REALLY ...  
    
Can You Say I PREACH ... ?!?  
    
Do I ... " Have " ...  
A ... " Leather Seat " ... ?  
In The ... " House of Lords " ...  
Where ... White Men PREACH ... !!!  
    
NO ... I DON'T ... !!!  
cos' I CAN'T .................................................................­................. Reach ......  
    
A Place Like ... THAT ...  
With Things I Speak ....  
    
Maybe I ... CAN ...  
Let's Wait and See ...  
    
But MOST White Folk ...  
Will NOT Believe ...  
    
The Things I Say ...  
That ... I HAVE Seen ... !!!  
    
"IT'S JUST NOT TRUE !  
HE'S GOT SCREWS LOOSE !"  
    
It's NO SURPRISE ... !!!  
When You ABUSE ...  
and ... Listen When ...  
  
The Words ... " SUIT YOU " ...  
    
But HERE'S The Thing ...  
Black People TOO ...  
    
DISMISS .................................................................­....... The Truth ................  
    
When Black Mens' Words ...  
Affect ... " Their Coup " ...  
    
"WHO THE HELL DOES HE THINK HE IS !  
SAYING THINGS ABOUT OUR KIDS !"  
    
Don't Our Kids ...  
Need Teaching TOO ... !?!  
    
"Of course they do,  
but in White Schools !"  
    
See ...  
Here's The Thing ...  
    
Black Folk ... BELIEVE ...  
In ... " White Mans' Ways " ...    
    
But DON'T BELIEVE ...  
What ... STRONG Blacks Say ... ?!?  
    
We'd Rather Hear ...  
    
A ... " 50 Cent " ...  
Than Listen To ...  
Chuck or KRS' ... !?!  
    
MOST Young Rappers ...  
Just Talk ... MESS ... !!!    
    
But it's OKAY ...  
For Them To ... PREACH ...  
    
While Our Children ...  
DIE On ... Streets ... !?!?!  
cos' of ... " WORDS " ...  
They Hear Them Speak ...    
    
OKAY OKAY ...  
It's ... NOT Just Rap  ... !!!    
    
But Rap CAN Set ...  
Kids Up For ... " SLAPS " ... !!!  
    
Check The Stats' ...  
I'm Talking FACTS ... !!!  
    
But Let's ...... Backtrack ...  
cos' Talking ... FACTS ...  
Must Mean I PREACH ... ?!?  
    
Can't We Put ...  
That Line To .... "Sleep" ... !?!  
    
NOT Just Yet ...  
I Haven't Reached .......  
The End of THIS HERE Poetry ... !!!!!  
    
Let Me Make ...  
This Piece Complete ....  
    
Sometimes .....  
I'm Just ... Venting STRESS ...  
    
Other Times ....  
I'm Just ... UPSET ... !!!!!  
    
Words I Write ...  
AREN'T ALL ... For You ... !!!  
    
I KNOW That ...    
I'm NOT A Fool ... !!!  
    
But When I Speak ...  
I'm Being ... TRUE ...  
    
I Don't Speak ....  
To ... "belittle you" ...  
    
When You Speak ...  
I'm Learning TOO ... !!!!!  
    
NOT From ... ALL ...    
But ... Some of You ...    
    
Things I Write ...  
I Hold ... "DEARLY" ...  
    
I'm NOT ... " Creepy " ...  
DON'T .... FEAR ME .... !!!!!  
    
Words I Write ...  
Can Have ... " DEEP Meaning ..... "    
    
Some Have Said ...  
They've ... " Taught " ...  
That's ... " Teaching " ...  
    
Some Have CLEARLY ...  
Left Folks .... REELING .... !!!!!!!  
    
But Let's Be ... CLEAR ...  
    
" I'm Not Preaching !!! "
In response to the suggestion that, what I was doing was preaching, I had to explain my position,

I'd rather see what I do, as merely sharing views of things that i've seen, as well as been through, as the poem states.

Also, this is an interesting piece, from the perspective of President Trumps', recent attack on the 4 congresswomen, for merely expressing their views about US Governance !
Julian Jul 2016
Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam
Shashank Virkud Mar 2011
I hate to preach but

tomorrow could be calm,
and led like a lamb.

Or,

tomorrow could be cunning,
and teach us to

breathe like we mean it.
Taru M Dec 2012
I sat in a cypher of minds
beat boxing with insanity
listening to words vibrate off lenseless glasses

they got you trapped in capitalism, my *****

runaway slave sprinting on treadmills
     you ain't going nowhere
nowhere they don't want you

you think 1984 is the future?
that **** was bred in your grandma's placenta
fed off lacerations curled around this nation

life is a trap, my *****, and you fell for it

let me school you for a sec
come
       s s s ****
            with the fat cats

you've been whipped
don't be ashamed
society has a strong grip

try to escape it by dressing different
but
     you're
          still
               the same
                    *****

chained to a gang of tapdancers
keep dancing, my *****
hustlin' for fool's gold
keep that jive smile, my *****

but we in Harlem
       twisted
and we know the truth

unscrew potential and find a tunnel from the ocean to the sky
my *****, we infinite
living in sleeping eights
     we got the Itis

ain't never waking from this American Dream
where money is cream
     and sugar
and they got you Xtra-Caffinated

Malcolm X Blvd is where they breed revolutionaries and martyrs
tell 'em
     keep your mouth open
          and your mind closed
we'll wean you on Olympus Thunderbolts

you don't want that early rose
       preach sanity
  preach rational
            preach possible

all that other **** is outside the beat
and you can't tapdance without rythm
blackface taught us that
So proud...wrote this whole thing in the span of a few hours. I was in the zone- alcohol was a muse, amused lol Enjoy
Perveiz Ali Dec 2015
Practice What you Preach.

Human characters are a real puzzle,
Sing in one tune but the music is different.
Constructive thoughts yet destructive acts,
New year wishes with festive greetings.
Preaching peace and communal harmony,
Even as chaos reigns in each communal street.
How can fire and water be mutual companions?
Revolutionary thoughts but deceitful tactics.
New year wishes laid on so thick and bright,
May the expressions in public become the private practices.
©Perveiz Ali
Noah Kernan Nov 2013
We are here to preach the dream,
to share the good word
of passionate fantasy
and the desire for happiness.

We are messengers,
disciples,
proteges,
of the things that help us
reach the moon and back.

We are slaves to art,
and the emotions that inspire it.

We live to create
and destroy that
which hinders us.

We are here to preach the dream.
The dream to be
who we want to be;
the lust for satisfaction
with ourselves.

We breathe to make others
laugh,
feel,
want,
love,
be.

We are the apostles of innovation,
rising from dust
where light once shown
to shine light forth
into obsidian hearts and ashen souls.

We are bandages for the bleeding,
braille for the blind,
and cotton blankets
for the faint of heart.

We are for those who need us,
and for those who don't know
what they need.

We are poets,
drawers,
painters,
sculptors,
musicians,
lovers.

And with our pencils and pens,
brushes and hands,
guitars and hearts,

we will call to arms
all of those who
have ever felt something
move like we have.

We are a romantic tragedy,
an exuberant atrophy.
We are anonymously outspoken.

Hear us,
silent.
An ode to artists everywhere.
Raj Bhandari Dec 2016
PLEASE

DON'T

PREACH,

DON'T

TEACH,

I'VE

FALLEN,

BEYOND

YOUR

REACH !!
Jasmyn 'Ladi J' Jun 2013
Man pineapples are so good
It's my favorite fruit
It's amplifies my taste buds making an enjoyable reaction
No room for sadness
Cuz pineapples bring me gladness
Justice to my nutrition
I'm a living organism and I need my power
Making me preach wholeness with boldness
I'm black and that's what my people do
So I'll continue to eat the sweet yellow fruit that purifies my soul
Flowers preach to us if we will hear:--
The rose saith in the dewy morn,
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn.
The poppy saith amid the corn:
Let but my scarlet head appear
And I am held in scorn;
Yet juice of subtle virtue lies
Within my cup of curious dyes.
The lilies say: Behold how we
Preach without words of purity.
The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made:
Men scent our fragrance on the air,
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.

But not alone the fairest flowers:
The merest grass
Along the roadside where we pass,
Lichen and moss and sturdy ****,
Tell of His love who sends the dew,
The rain and sunshine too,
To nourish one small seed.
Alif Imran Jan 2016
I need a preach,
I need assurances,
To hold me still,
To built steel’s hard faith,
I’m diverting,
Astray,
Starting questioning,
Belief,
And ebbing briskly,
My trust,
Hope’s dwindling,
I’m ruined,
I need a preach,
I need assurances,
To hold me back,
From this fall, I’m falling,
Before I’m shattered,
Broken and sinned.
Raymond F Bell Mar 2015
I see a mirror
Of Love,
A promise fulfilled
By the power above

I see a mature woman
Who’s endless in worth
Who has dreams and goals
And a great purpose on Earth

I see a soul
That’ll hold me close
Keep me happy
And love me the most

When I look into your eyes
My search is complete
No more looking for love
No more girls to meet

When I look into your heart
I feel God’s grace and blessing
My prayers were answered
And there’s no more guessing

When I see you smile
Not a worry do I feel
Stress falls to the ground
And my anger tends to peel

When I see you happy
It feeds my spirit
I’d even ask if you liked my body
Just to even hear it

When I see your life
I see our great futures combined
Nothing but success, love, and peace
Fill my dreams and mind

When I see into your mind
I see your want to be great
And you’re off to a good start
Many girls are gonna hate

When I see into your love
It makes me write it down
Sing it to a crowd
Or preach it on a mound

And when you read this
Many emotions do you feel
But what I love the most
No worry about them being concealed
1/23/10
GyozaNeeko Aug 2013
Do not listen to what others might preach.
Heart’s unrest from all the wrongs, do something
Before your life their crude instructions breach.

Diploma and money. Drown them in bleach.
A paycheck is a coward’s worshipping
Do not listen to what others might preach.

Life is too short so make it yours to reach.
Shed your suit and fly it up high, sailing
Before your life their crude instructions breach.

The day you obey, goodwill shall bewitch.
Hush backstage. For the show is beginning.
Do not listen to what others might preach.

And soon you’ll find yourself, nothing but rich.
Not gold, but the joy you have been looking,
Before your life their crude instructions breach.

Now the world needs you; a game-changing speech:
‘All you dare-to dreamers and self-seeking:
Do not listen to what others might preach,
Before your life their crude instructions breach.’
Margaryta Apr 2014
Never cook with a fairy tale omnibus
open on a kitchen table,
or confuse salt with sugar.

Cherry-pit pies are like eating dragon bones, as to
be expected of one taught to
        never cook with a fairy tale omnibus,

safer to love a beast than to open up to
strangers, precise butchers cutting hearts
        open on a kitchen table;

I love you like salt, preach obedient daughters, omitting
the ease to mix dream with wake
        or confuse salt with sugar.
Andre Baez Mar 2014
The seductress on my mind
Lives in full on expression
Laced in the free confines
And platitudes of direction

The sequential confessions
A private march of signs
Lead aggressive regression
A spinal tap of times

Timid forms of prose
Do not impose, much
In the way of speech
Or the ways of preach

A dandelion blossoms
Fully under direction
Of gunfire and hellfire
Made in mans *****

A milk which is colored
A dark, rusting, crimson
For this is the gift adorned
An antiquated prison

A dream once flowed upon
The rivers that line my arms
Texts of pharaohs charmed
With distant songs sung  

Yet, not distant enough
Into a further realm of
Steak, salmon, wine, and
Pontification, a type sublime

Cardiac and stop and frisk arrests
Psychedelics and prophylactics
Insomniacs and chipper morn birds
Courage and numbing fear tactics

Topics are churned forward
As thoughts are yearned for
But are seldom rewarded
Without snide comments

Even if contorted to fit
Daily textbook definitions
A raindrop is precipitation
Not tears from eyes of perdition

Said a jeering member of an alley
A gatekeeper for all of Hades
A living reminder of what shape
Controls societies minions a plenty

I believe you are a queen lost in time
You are the seductress on my mind
The boom-bap of 90s street art hop
A collection of lives birthed caught

You are the desire of my epicenter
The freezing of my two lips together
A culture of desire and of fortune
A soft room with croons in tunes

I believe you are not pink matter
You are the color scheme in the sun
A serpent slithering within disaster
A tale of victory and woe as one

Tears sting the edges of my eyes
As shadows are cast upon my soul
A tree in mourning for it's seeds
As oil desecrates, dry, shallow soil

When did this become a love poem?
Atop the raft my dreams have flowed
Wordsmiths fashion sturdy homes  
To heal the word and to help growth

Inside one of these I fled and bled
In it I found fish, water, and bread
Self-hate and despair had spread
Until it was fully excreted in death

The seductress on my mind brought:
Dandelions with smoke from gunfire
Milk which was crimson in color
Pharaohs songs of golden charm
A conversation in full, and open arms
Arms that held my dreams with calm

Constructs of love and poetic meals
Heal the surface of darkness scorn
Feeding the soul of it's sullen needs
A return to an innocence unborn
there is a corner where light does not reach
even at noontime so we go to hide
away from where the foolish yellers preach

some days we dream of lazing on the beach
and waiting for the changing of the tide
there is a corner where light does not reach

untouched by hardness of unruly speech
where none can urge and no one can deride
away from where the foolish yellers preach

we may be safe from murderer and leech
both from the open blade and from the snide
there is a corner where light does not reach

into the silence where there is no screech
of angry voices seeking to divide
away from where the foolish yellers preach

we may be sure of what belongs to each
and how we find that only out of pride
there is a corner  where light does not reach
away from where the foolish yellers preach
Late, my grandson! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts,
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts,

Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call,
I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall.

So--your happy suit was blasted--she the faultless, the divine;
And you liken--boyish babble--this boy-love of yours with mine.

I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past;
Babble, babble; our old England may go down in babble at last.

'Curse him!' curse your fellow-victim? call him dotard in your rage?
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age.

Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier? yet perhaps she was not wise;
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes.

In the hall there hangs a painting--Amy's arms about my neck--
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck.

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown;
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone.

Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake?
You, not you! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make.

Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me, Amy was a timid child;
But your Judith--but your worldling--she had never driven me wild.

She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring,
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring.

She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life,
While she vows 'till death shall part us,' she the would-be-widow wife.

She the worldling born of worldlings--father, mother--be content,
Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is something in descent.

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.

Cross'd! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride;
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood,
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood.

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer,
Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley--there,

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled,
Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, dead the child.

Dead--and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now--
I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow.

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears,
Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years.

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away.
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day.

Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones,
All his virtues--I forgive them--black in white above his bones.

Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe,
Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go.

Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran,
She with all the charm of woman, she with all the breadth of man,

Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, yet so lowly-sweet,
Woman to her inmost heart, and woman to her tender feet,

Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind,
She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind.

Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'd down the coast,
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost.

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea;
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me.

Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone,
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own.

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave;
Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave,

Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all,
Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall!

Beautiful was death in him, who saw the death, but kept the deck,
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck,

Gone for ever! Ever? no--for since our dying race began,
Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of man.

Those that in barbarian burials ****'d the slave, and slew the wife,
Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life.

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night;
Ev'n the black Australian dying hopes he shall return, a white.

Truth for truth, and good for good! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just--
Take the charm 'For ever' from them, and they crumble into dust.

Gone the cry of 'Forward, Forward,' lost within a growing gloom;
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb.

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space,
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace!

'Forward' rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one.
Let us hush this cry of 'Forward' till ten thousand years have gone.

Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings would flay
Captives whom they caught in battle--iron-hearted victors they.

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls,
Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls,

Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names,
Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd Christian into flames.

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great;
Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate.

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse:
Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller? which was worse?

France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good;
Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.

Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun--
Crown'd with sunlight--over darkness--from the still unrisen sun.

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan?
'**** your enemy, for you hate him,' still, 'your enemy' was a man.

Have we sunk below them? peasants maim the helpless horse, and drive
Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kindlier brutes alive.

Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers--burnt at midnight, found at morn,
Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, born-unborn,

Clinging to the silent mother! Are we devils? are we men?
Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again,

He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers
Sisters, brothers--and the beasts--whose pains are hardly less than ours!

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! who can tell how all will end?
Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend.

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past,
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last.

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise:
When was age so cramm'd with menace? madness? written, spoken lies?

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn,
Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, 'Ye are equals, equal-born.'

Equal-born? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat.
Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat,

Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated language loom
Larger than the Lion,--Demos end in working its own doom.

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her? shall we yield?
Pause! before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field.

Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now,
Shall we hold them? shall we loose them? take the suffrage of the plow.

Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you,
Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true.

Plowmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find,
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind,

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar;
So the Higher wields the Lower, while the Lower is the Higher.

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine;
Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine.

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once again the sickening game;
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name.

Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all;
Step by step we rose to greatness,--thro' the tonguesters we may fall.

You that woo the Voices--tell them 'old experience is a fool,'
Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule.

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place;
Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her face.

Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street,
Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet.

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope,
Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the *****.

Authors--essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part,
Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art.

Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare;
Down with Reticence, down with Reverence--forward--naked--let them stare.

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer;
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure.

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism,--
Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm.

Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men;
Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again?

Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin.

Heated am I? you--you wonder--well, it scarce becomes mine age--
Patience! let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage.

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall asleep?
Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep?

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray:
After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May?

After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and Jacquerie,
Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see?

When the schemes and all the systems, Kingdoms and Republics fall,
Something kindlier, higher, holier--all for each and each for all?

All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth;
All the millions one at length with all the visions of my youth?

All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf or blind;
Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind?

Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue--
I have seen her far away--for is not Earth as yet so young?--

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion ****'d,
Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd,

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles,
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles.

Warless? when her tens are thousands, and her thousands millions, then--
All her harvest all too narrow--who can fancy warless men?

Warless? war will die out late then. Will it ever? late or soon?
Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon?

Dead the new astronomy calls her. . . . On this day and at this hour,
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower,

Here we met, our latest meeting--Amy--sixty years ago--
She and I--the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow,

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now--
Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-deathless vow. . . .

Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass!
Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass.

Venus near her! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours,
Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading flowers.

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all good things.
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings.

Hesper--Venus--were we native to that splendour or in Mars,
We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars.

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite,
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light?

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair,
Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, 'Would to God that we were there'?

Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the immeasurable sea,
Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me.

All the suns--are these but symbols of innumerable man,
Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan?

Is there evil but on earth? or pain in every peopled sphere?
Well be grateful for the sounding watchword, 'Evolution' here,

Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good,
And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud.

What are men that He should heed us? cried the king of sacred song;
Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong,

While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way,
All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day.

Many an aeon moulded earth before her highest, man, was born,
Many an aeon too may pass when earth is manless and forlorn,

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded--pools of salt, and plots of land--
Shallow skin of green and azure--chains of mountain, grains of sand!

Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by,
Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye,

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul;
Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole.

                                                *

Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.
Not to-night in Locksley Hall--to-morrow--you, you come so late.

Wreck'd--your train--or all but wreck'd? a shatter'd wheel? a vicious boy!
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy?

Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time,
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime?

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street.

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread,
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead.

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,
And the crowded couch of ****** in the warrens of the poor.

Nay, your pardon, cry your 'forward,' yours are hope and youth, but I--
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry,

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night;
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.

Light the fading gleam of Even? light the glimmer of the dawn?
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn.

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me.

Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best,
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest?

Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve,
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve.

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson! Death and Silence hold their own.
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone.

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Squire,
Kindly landlord, boon companion--youthful jealousy is a liar.

Cast the poison from your *****, oust the madness from your brain.
Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain.

Youthful! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school,
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

Yonder lies our young sea-village--Art and Grace are less and less:
Science grows and Beauty dwindles--roofs of slated hideousness!

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield,
Till the peasant cow shall **** the 'Lion passant' from his field.

Poo
Noandy Feb 2015
I say;

The drifting rain dissolves sea salt
Turning tears into dangled monsoon
Under the bleak ballad of dying dawn
Where I long for heat unbroken

You say;

The drifting rain drenches my tiptoe
Witching smiles into deranged equinox
Upon the downpour of ancient daybreak
Where I pray for old snow long sunk

All was as if the days faded
And morphed into younger sunset
It was as if mercy was drained
And no one preach as desired

The downpour stench though remains constant
Of rotting perfume of the rouge graphite
You drowsily drip from dowsing fingers, they lit
Into pages of burning, dancing melodious lads

As will, you may keep those imageries for you
And give up old stories as my slumber lyre
Whether it is about the burnt down marching boy
Or the bloodstained pianist from our ancient joy

For the bleak heart aesthetic
has affected a new kind of love
And the bleak heart aesthetic
would never let you feel so certain

So please keep your drifting rain of strings
During the downpour of the deranged equinox
When the snow goes black and slowly sunk
Into pages of firespit melodious lads
Hao Nguyen Apr 2016
Many of the most profound pieces of poetry
May not have been dreamed and transferred
In particular manners professional,
And many of the most practiced writers
May not have been as noble nor indicative
As their readers would imagine and preach.
This concern thus produces a humorous conclusion
That through probability, possibility, and realism,
Many of the greatest and most inspiring words
Passed down to our misguided generation,
May have been conceived, scribbled, and explored
From the humble origins of atop a toilet.
Carter Ginter Dec 2017
Blood means nothing
Unless it's staining the streets
Family has no merit
When they don't even See me

You want me to be passive?
And let them spew racist hate?
And all that "gendered" *******?
You can't stop me, too late

**** the systems that oppress us
These prisons are stealing lives
Locking up innocent people
It's a form of modern genocide

We are all human
But our brothers are killed by police
And our sisters killed for their gender identity
But you'd rather look the other way
And defend hateful "free speech"

I am aware of my privilege
And I will not stay silent
You turn your eyes away from police brutality
But try to preach anti-violence

Our country is run by the white and the blue
While the red is the blood of its people
We need to look up at reality
And stop focusing on the steeples

Your hopes and your prayers
Do not end the violence
Instead they teach hate
And oppressive silence
See them standing on the podium of promises
Tickling us to wed them into power
As we stand under the burning sun, sweaty as ever
All ears to their flowered words of which they caress
And powdered our minds with.
They donate maggi, salt, wears and the root of all evil,
To further blind our minds and instinct.
Like goats following a hand with a palm fruit,
We chased them with high hopes to the polls,
Like Esau of old we repay their donation with our votes.

Their desires were met, now in power
At serious battle against their promises,
Our faith getting lean, our hopes bleed in response to their policies.
The opposition jubilant for the failure of the electorates.
Soon, they awoke into reality, spur to abort incumbent reign.
Some took to bombs, guns, cutlasses, few to the streets.
The opposition soldiers are thugs, always hungry to ****.
The masses weapons are their mouth, placards,
And solidarity songs, they walk and sing.
They say when elephants fight the grasses suffer
I wonder who are the elephants or the grasses indeed.
A  place that suppose to be our home now a battle field
Where everyone fights for self survival
Forgetting the unborn, our toddlers, our heroes past.

It is high time we talked and sack the thugs
But who will moderate
Who will faithfully give audience, who will sincerely talk?
The elite, the elected seems like they are war ready
They have well set up their political troops
A war they won't stand to fight
But escape through thinning air off our sight.

In a molding  state
Pigs dare to preach sanity
In a world of questions, ignorance remain the worst cancer
And the apex poverty.
Let not fold our hands and live to die in this doom
If your lips are scared, let your pen speak.
Let not throw in the towel
Until we justfully elapse the reign of the unwanted in one peace.
The inspiration for this poem came from the power struggle in my country and how  we have been very unlucky in getting a leader that all can fully accept. Our leaders here barely keep their promises.
Frank Ruland Oct 2014
My good congregation, I take the podium!
I have been asked to speak--to preach!
Where are you demons, devils, acrimonious angels?
Why do you submit yourself to actions so odious?
Stand up! Do not allow yourself to be leeched
of your life! Do not suffer the unfaithful!

No! I will not allow my flock to be misled!
I will not stand by as these good souls are drained!
So, rise! Cast your burdens back upon the *******!
Throw them like stones; let their sins be bled!
Who has had enough of being perilously pained?
Who is fed up with with all their dastardly disasters?

Now! Now is the time to undo the oppression!
Show them your anger--unleash the frustration!
I ask, who among you is without disdain?
To Hell with them! Let's teach them a lesson!
Our lives are ours! Deny them castration!
You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain!
I was asked to write another "sermon," type poem. Oh, how I do love ranting. Take back your lives, my good congregation.
Joseph Goodwin Feb 2011
Please, stop talkin' 'bout yourself that way
as if you have a smaller brain
No one's buying that but you

You care too much about your good grades
and all the things your teachers say
Don't you know those thing will never last?

Educated idiot
In the desk right next to me
Educated idiot
Writing on the board where you teach
Educated idiot
Your words, they sound so sweet
From the pulpit where you preach once or twice a week,
once or twice a week

Well I don't want to know how much you get paid
or hear the ***** details 'bout the last time you got laid
Sometimes you really make me sick

You act like you have somethin' important to say
but then you treat people like animals
no, only a fool will listen to a word of it

Educated idiot
In the desk right next to me
Educated idiot
Writing on the board where you teach
Educated idiot
Your words, they sound so sweet
From the pulpit where you preach once or twice a week,
once or twice a week

Oh, how do drugs and cigarettes
help us to achieve
the greatness locked inside of us
that no one else sees
We're all wandering aroung
on nameless roads
the destination
no one knows

Lookin for a chance to bathe in the see

Please, don't be

The Educated idiot
In the desk right next to me
Educated idiot
Writing on the board where you teach
Educated idiot
Your words, they sound so sweet
From the pulpit where you preach once or twice a week,
once or twice a week
Luna Casablanca Feb 2015
When a change in habit is needed in life,
seems that Alone is the best feeling and
Isolation is the best place to be.
Can't keep looking back and thinking,
"What Have I done?"
"What a fool I was!"
Preach no more.
Just keep the mouth shut.
It's in the past.
My being open makes good people come and
go.
Far too fast.
Right doesn't always remain,
wrong fades away after more in life comes to
distract us from the past.
Nothing stays the same.
Sorry old habit, I'll have to leave you
behind.
I let you own me,
now I must remember only I own myself.
Preach to myself for now on.
They don't have to know everything about
me.
Sid Lollan Aug 2017
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

(Authors of (obligatory)
Redemption: what is true genius if it ain’t dead yet?
Let you, who **** it, not be present for its resurrection.)

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

i had a nightmare:

i opened the door of my ranch-house in the boonies of
southern pa.
out-into the grasses of the old Congo;
There stood the Lion.
20 feet away
i, frozen in the magnitude of his vision;
spirit, dominated by his
completely;
Not even a growl.
i remained
paralyzed—he licked the backs of his paws
and combed a wiry mane...
…a halfa-second was a year if it was a halfa-second now...
but
somewhere in there
i regained my legs and without knowing
pivoted,
grabbed the doorknob. Twist. Open. Step inside.
turn to close the...doorway is gone, the house has vanished
And
HE WAS RIGHT ON TOP OF ME

i was nothing but-a body of plastic fear
molten,
melted and cast into mannequin limbs and head.
i could feel the Lion’s entire, real
spirit crushing spirt
on my hollow caste self.

his breathe stunk of blood that
forced my replicaego into infant curl…
…Finally, the beast roared a canyon
i shivered!
a shiver that shook inside my head
thru the spine to shake
my bones inside the bed.

Thru the constricting red curtain of bloodclot eye
spy the tiny eclipse
of the Black Crow inna massive sheet of african sun;
i must be dead already.
The Lion feels the Crow perched onna cape fig nearby
and his muscles tighten accordingly, his beastly hunger
displaced by boiled-blood anger.

Eye-to-Eye
with the beast
where Fear has reached saturation-point;
it is Nothing if it is Everything…
…the Crow lets out a hiss
like spikes of radio-static, interrupted by series
of whooping-caws…
…stomach vibrated by the Lion’s low,
almost internal growl. For the
first time, his tranquilizing orbs
divert from mine
to capture the Black Crow perched on the dying cape fig.
uncertainty taps my shoulder…then…i feel my body;
the weight releases
and as i motion to rise from the grass and dirt, the Congo dissolves and i’m
sitting up on my mattress with broken springs in the humid
summer slumber of southern pa.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

-What security?
programmed,
under deep-cover;
jungian re-uploads. Them. Resurrected witha blackmarket
medicine a Witch Doctor devolution;
Replicate, regenerate, forever
<01100101 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100111 01110010 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101000 01100101 01100001 01100100>
Bottom feeding grave robbers and tomb vandals are all they are!-

-Better check what ya put down here…liable to shape a ghoul,
and you know this haunt is made-up of enough spooks-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Professors of chaos preach:
O wanderers!
write me the manifesto
walking atop a line of hot coals
-I smell me some burning soles-

(They intend to:
Pour, pure from cold-clear spring-spout
      into muddy-brown-clay, dissolved,
rushing against dried-up bones of gully-walls…
…the Crow just sits above
         and laughs there

Don’t ya see it?)

History
is not about the past,
but
about what the present
can mold the past
into
for the future.
-the marble’s trajectory sure to
flip onnit’s axis d’pending on which record you dig-

(One mistake
can a coward make
or
one accident happen
up-on that a martyr stake’d.
etched in the rut of each separate fate;)


The lion
must roar for his P R I D E
        (or?)
lion wears his hide
as a mascot
Black Crow eats crow egg blues
        black crow spotted me yellow in the bushes
pants down, gun-in-hand
-send your prayers-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Manic Brilliance Oct 2015
mackelmore got it focused, and eminem did too,
if hip hop can have a tolerance, then why can't you?
you say you're against abortion, but what if your child turned out gay?
would you change your story? or would you try to drug the love away?
pro-life's is what you preach but against gay marriage from a book's depiction?
no wonder we are lost, when we think in contradiction...
this isn't only a hit to Christianity, it's aimed towards religion, insanity comes to definition when a book make your decisions.
we try to preach peace, but peace still hides, when every hateful slur comes with a demon surprise.
so many wars over **** like this,
when we should all stand up and fight against it.
some say it's on oil, but see the bigger picture,
internal wars fueled by hatred written in scripture.
the essence of the soul is trapped within a cast,
maybe we are already in hell but our soul stands center mass,
trying to escape with reason by which you just ignore,
when you speak without though or a pulse within your core.
why does it matter if someone has a lover of the same ***?
just because you were raised that way, you have to continue this hex?
ink written on paper, by the hands of man,
over thousands of years, translated again and again.
but you're so set in stone on what you believe,
that if Jesus himself appeared and proved you wrong, he would get the third degree.
set you human thoughts aside for the sake of humanity,
and fill your heart will love, respect, and a sense of humility.
I'm not anti-Christian, pro-life, or pro-choice.
but I am pro-Humanity, Pro-change, and pro-voice.
softcomponent May 2014
Find the lighter, use it as a lighthouse on a walk below the wall you watch along the wave-formations. Who Wants a Cold One? a Coors Light ad corrects.. When it comes to your home, the little things matter.. an insurance ad blares.. my computer is infected with 3rd party applications unremovable to my meagre tech-ability.. there is a hero as Joseph Campbell once theorized.. in myself like a sick bastardly virus waiting for moments to prove to me "I AM THE SAVIOR, I AM THE CHRIST, I AM THE WARLORD, MICE, MAN, AND VICE".. the windows of opportunity close, I am left waiting the door

& the elevator.

Thirty-thousand years ago, there was nothing but a breeze.. a viscous breeze across chill-spined pterodactyls.. warm-under-the-jungle-brush tyrannosaurus rex, and to think one day I will be just a legend in bone..
Charlotte said she thinks of death and so did Jen. They sat next to the all-you-can-eat and discussed the inevitable. I was sour and playful with no-will-to-understand, just reminding my hair of breezy summer days of 10, thinking of strangeness, of place I was in.

When it's quiet sometimes, I think of old dreams.. dreams I sunk below drown-level as a child in bed and belief. Both mommy and daddy were arguing in the kitchen, this was 7 or 8.. they argued so often one could hear mom begin to cry sometimes, and dad I could see in minds-eye with a grimace so closed and so creased he was hurt and yet honest.. I did not understand so I hid under-stood-silhouettes, oh adulthood..

once in dream I was in pulsing green graveyard like crayon realism strobe lights, tombstones all-round and faint-buzz of outside and one of those strange balded henchmen of badguy Jafar from Disney's Aladdin came peaking outta nowhere with curled eyebrow and baggy one-thousand-one Arabian nightlives parachute pants, curled toes brown-beige moccasins to.. he let out conniving 'HEUHEE!' and slapped me right-side cheek and I JOLTED up bedwise in real time to feel actual physical sting for a few lingered seconds then the sobs of poor mother outside.. I never remembered a dream so clearly again.. they all come, Pro-Found, and dizzy away after hour or two for rest of eternity or perhaps to Place I Can Visit at Death to Review Every Vision and I wonder... when your life flashes before your eyes and the light is encroaching, scenes of mother, brother, father, son, daughter, best-friend, party, break-up, heartbreak, slip-fall, first-sip, first-drag, last-leg, first-kiss, first-hit, first-game, fear, love,  HATE, wait.. do the Dreams come to? Are they all flesh-ed before your eyes as you pass into Light? Are they brought to direct remembrance as you cross the border with Passport of Gods and a Goddess (and which Picture appears on the Page)..?

I remember the old eczema taking bits of skin to carpets round-town and round-lower-mainland to disgust of friends old and new-- this was era where confidence ate itself in mirrors, the sober reality of ugly-ness chiseling away at my Goodness Attempts.. All That Pointless Pain was no Exception nor a Rule, it just **** Happens every once-and-again to the sound of life farting. I used to miss school for feet so impossible to walk on, pussing and bleeding and staining the sheets, shoe soles, carpets, and soul.. limp thru the hallways of Brooks Secondary feeling like bad flavor additive to multicultural Planet Earth-- sleeping 'til the bell rang drinking coffee singing songs I said '**** the ******* educational system and **** me I'm so flatlined..' someday I felt things would really get better and lucky young me I was right.

A half-decade later, I am 21 and hoping, floating, free in the breeze as the wings I have grown keep on wishing the subsistence down. The girl, whoever-she-might-as-well-be, sits immediately vertical chatting frantically to boy with a bit of a cowlick slouching on-up over a bundle of colored paperwork. It seems late in the season for homework, and assume they may have some affiliation with a crazy-hep computer design group in the tradition of Nouevau Silicon Valley.... I sit at my laptop, inching a word a million cubic millimeters closer to God or Divinity or Crescendo or A Bunch More ******* You'll End Up Ignoring---

It's a sunny day, the rain having slathered-off into obscurity somewhere with the Monsoons when the Sun gave the Moon a Soft Slap and the poor purity white-kid went off whimpering, bleeding nose-- I sat, the other night, playing another Grand Strategy game as Tom divided his time between a vaulted and damaged lover, his labor, and his life (friends, food, video-games, vice)... Chai, old Chai the Thai Guy mentioned past his nose in previous iterations of Depictions sat and described his pins-and-needles upset at his bosses at one his three many jobs.. desperately firing text-messages into receiving-space-panel and reflect and back unto Tom's smartphone dash asking him to order a six-pack from a local delivery service cuz his adrenal was giving him heartpain with hurt, and Tom being Busy as All-Ways Tom Is wasn't able to decipher the scramble in-time to make contact before closure of the liquor stores.. poor not-so-poor Chai at first felt castrated at realization he would miss the 11 PM dot-time, but didn't mind as he rendezvoused with Tom and I at Willows Beach where Tom reminded him of a whiskey he'd bought sitting counter-wise at his place.. we kissed a few Mary Janes rightsideup, dragging our butts in the sand to discuss what was wrong (each of us had a problem that night, save for perhaps a less-vocal Tom, I describing my annoyance that a lazy consensus had erupted in my sorry-hometown between my sorta-friends and friends-of-friends that my writing and sharing my writing was arrogant and I an arrogant *** for sharing and I just confounded that they would find my passions so trivial-- perhaps jealousy, perhaps complacency and judgement-for-lack-of-anything-better-to-do and ah **** em all if they think like that, I'll write and be the arrogant me they think I am and share 'til I'm blue in the face and dead perhaps for outspoken intellectualism in their autocratic pointless-waste worldviews.. sad that I dislike them only on the basis they disliked me first..)

I had planned to stay late and leave early-morn (5 or 6 AM) to catch a first-off morning bus back home and sleep, hoping for most part to avoid the shattered-***-mess of a home I was living in.
About 2 days ago, give or take, a water-line for the laundry machine had erupted to soak our entirely-carpeted basement suite, forcing the poor new landlord (a sweetheart of a man named Ron having just taken possession of the house from previous owner on May 1st and, it seems, left 'holding the bag' as they'd call it in day-trading-investment-lingo) to tear out the entirely-soaked carpet and replace it with sensible laminate flooring and rendering the entire suite virtually unlivable for indefinite-few-days and so for me work and friends and especially writing become a welcome reprieve to I, a first world Refu-Jeez.. us, so terribly-off I sip a latte near sunny panorama windows-so-clear-they're-not-there overlooking the crosses of Yates and Blanshard with European church of Gothic architectural style poking heedlessly into empty-open blue.. ironically and strangely there is a liquor store quite literally right next door, and's one I shop at often for its decent prices (God is Dead or Just Drinking to Cope with Sartre and Kierkegaard's Ultimate Thesis) (Kierkegaard especially '*** Kierkegaard seems a good and long friend of God the Almighty) (...I talk with such Judaeo-Christian Catholic rhetoric it never ceases to amaze myself as it bleeds to page..) (stranger thing is, tho, there is no beginning, no middle, no end.. you read or you are bored and either/or is just fine..)

There is some hypothesized crescendo-bliss Tech Singularity on the way in the try-dition of Ray Kurzweil and William Burroughs.. Oscar Wilde to.. (see The Soul of Man Under Socialism in essay-collect book De Profundis).. one day we will all be eternal happiness expressed in song and dance and LED erected-projections of Imperfect Universe (Our Imperfect Earth) with lives stuck on infinite repeat.. our idea of Paradise.. and for those with ability to remain rushed to cortisol (stress-the-best hormone) it will be Hell on Earth, so DRAB and THE SAME all the TIME and it's READ and it's WRITE and it's RIGHT.. the world runs faster with every passing day so desperate to discover the Globe is Flat so we can Hop Off the Other Side into what one might assume to be The Better Place.. elusively picking-up speed thinking 'closer now definitely closer now' unaware (or, secretly aware and unwilling to admit for what will one do when one cannot run?) they are Running in Circles Over and Over and Over and Over and Over Again... cannot take the hint in the fact the Pacific (same Pacific) has been crossed a hugeillion times, nor the same McDonald's in the Azores of Atlantic Portugal is the Same ******* McDonald's stopped-thru on the then-trillionth time last year... and all whilst the International Space Station remains muted up-above crossing 'round and 'round 'til the Jehovah'n Day of Judgement (Chris Hadfield now below with advice for how to run a little faster even blinded in one eye..) then there are the dying Prophets Predicting Industrial Collapse who preach upon the Mount of Internet Sinai Eternal and state "the world is now unsalvageable and we are all about to die.. if ever you wished to find Buddhistic Nirvanic Peace, now is the time so start meditating and imagine Death as New Life and Geopolitics as Game".. forever and ever and ever and ever.

It is only natural to find existence to be 'weird..' layered with Who's That's and giant What The ***** everywhichway you turn.. did it start in a Big Bang, will it end in a Big Crunch, Big Freeze, Big Bang.. ? all questions once ignored for certain ignorance and resurrected as questions concerning the Nature of the What The ***** (also known as 'Science').. and if it did start in a Big Bang, did I start in a Big Bang..? and if it does end in a Big Crunch, will I end in a Big Crunch..? am I a sudden flash of REAL in a Universe that isn't me..? or am I an entire Universe.. perhaps even more than that...? the questions pulse in youth like bad words or bullets. I once stayed up all-night thinking of infinity with my head soaring space-wise forever and ever and ever and I stopped in sudden panic thinking: I could lie here up all night and all day 'til the towered age of 37 (I was 14 at the time) and still be no further on the Universal Map than from thumb-tip-middle to thumb-nail so I wrapped up the attempt with a mix of fear and incredulity, went to school next-day exhausted and tried to explain it all to friends.. they got it, I suppose, but we were all 14 and played basketball instead (I imagined infinite-spinning-basketball on thumb of Michael Jordan).

It's always best describing life in form of Disembodied Poetics.. sure some Philistines won't understand '*** their minds are made of Clockwork, Digits, and Blockthought.. but the general psychic underly implied in all with human faculty will ring-a-ding-ding! and remember all such ancient thoughts and feels as forgotten as a child, locked away until the Spirit rose-up from a rosey thorn prickle to flower straight-up into a Rose! or so I hope as a one-of-many writers-- all of which will write so-as to speak on your behalf.. all floaty and marking a purpose.
He is a link between this and the coming world.
He is
A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.


He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing
Fruit which the hungry heart craves;
He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed
Spirit with his beautiful melodies;
He is a white cloud appearing over the horizon,
Ascending and growing until it fills the face of the sky.
Then it falls on the flows in the field of Life,
Opening their petals to admit the light.
He is an angel, send by the goddess to
Preach the Deity's gospel;
He is a brilliant lamp, unconquered by darkness
And inextinguishable by the wind. It is filled with
Oil by Istar of Love, and lighted by Apollon of Music.


He is a solitary figure, robed in simplicity and
Kindness; He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his
Inspiration, and stays up in the silence of the night,
Awaiting the descending of the spirit.


He is a sower who sows the seeds of his heart in the
Prairies of affection, and humanity reaps the
Harvest for her nourishment.


This is the poet -- whom the people ignore in this life,
And who is recognized only when he bids the earthly
World farewell and returns to his arbor in heaven.


This is the poet -- who asks naught of
Humanity but a smile.
This is the poet -- whose spirit ascends and
Fills the firmament with beautiful sayings;
Yet the people deny themselves his radiance.


Until when shall the people remain asleep?
Until when shall they continue to glorify those
Who attain greatness by moments of advantage?
How long shall they ignore those who enable
Them to see the beauty of their spirit,
Symbol of peace and love?
Until when shall human beings honor the dead
And forget the living, who spend their lives
Encircled in misery, and who consume themselves
Like burning candles to illuminate the way
For the ignorant and lead them into the path of light?


Poet, you are the life of this life, and you have
Triumphed over the ages of despite their severity.


Poet, you will one day rule the hearts, and
Therefore, your kingdom has no ending.


Poet, examine your crown of thorns; you will
Find concealed in it a budding wreath of laurel.

— The End —