"privation" poems
They tell us we need education
It's a part of creation
It becomes your foundation
And you know what, I want to write a dissertation
But there's a sly deprivation
a twisted and greedy **** that creates this limitation,
our gardens are drowning in them.
Let's stop this perpetuation.
Let's stop the subordination.
We need a reforestation.
They have the education yet they lack communication.
Can't you see the starvation of education? It's causing me frustration.
They hold the apple of knowledge and dangle it above our heads,
I am surrounded by dead ends.
A ********** over education.
Lets demand our own salvation from this privation.
How would they handle a confrontation? Or even better a collaboration?
If we share education as a nation,
Then we can all go to graduation.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,
subtext of tension,
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.
The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.
Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;
disinterested love
present,
desultory carnage
of rescission,
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.
The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.
Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.
Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
when life is charmed with radiance
all kicking ponies
and summer sticky sweet with instinct
like a head sloped between thighs
moralities privation comes
stirs its ***
a broth of orthodoxy
evoking a cinematic painting
of Christ's crimson howls
for the ache of life
his blood sacrifice construed
as desire from the embrace of lust
sins cursed maniacal
save the genitals of priests
for little children's ****
while
God
the father
stands aloof
as if nothing but helpless black space
the churches history
a coterie of priests
a prancing parade
in black dresses
with rosy *****
Jesus's own little rays of sunshine
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
the curling smoke
from warming fires
rise into the slate
gray sky of the
Beqaa Valley
sheaves of
rising prayers
expire in twisted plumes
dissipating into the
gloom of an ever
looming winter
overcast
refugees from
the Arab Spring's
uncivil wars
gather for warmth
around waning embers,
smoldering in the underbelly
of the lowliest bottom of rusted
steel drums, tended
with scavenged debris
some thought better
suited to fortify the
faltering hovels of
last resort
the fires
join us in
communal rings
straining the
tenuous links of
brotherhood, the
politics of men
assiduously tear
asunder
we count ourselves
among the fortunate,
blessed exiles recused
from the acrimony
of desecrated cities,
welcoming the
residencies of
bewailing lullabies
of colic infants, the
searing hunger of
stunted children and the
incomprehensible babble
the elderly eloquently
speak in tongues
of a desperate
exasperation
our nagging impotence
swaddle us in ambivalent
inabilities to master circumstances
profanely denigrating our humanity
privation is
our daily bread
the bitter manna
feasting on the
animosity the banquet
of rancor generously
prepares for
peace starved
pilgrims
in these
refugee camps
the cold cuts deeper
hunger pangs
grow sharper
our blighted dignity,
vanished livelihoods,
and the presence of
recently interred
loved ones trudge
through our mean
encampment as
fully enfranchised
citizens in our
distressed
kingdom
what was lost can
never be recovered
our homeland leveled
yet doors still stand open
silently pleading all
to cross a new
threshold
the full restoration
of our hope,
the reconstitution
of our flagging
humanity, the
spark of the
holy spirit
willfully uniting us
in the salvation
of reconciliation
is nigh
we are
the divine children
stoking the embers
tending the fire
that light pathways
through the cold
darkness of a
broken world
Oh come
Emmanuel,
dwell among us
Oh come
Emmanuel
ransom once
again the
poor captives
of Israel….
Selah
Music Selection:
L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg
Veni Veni Emmanuel
Everywhere
Christmas
2013
jbm
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
winter covers the earth
in a requited slumber
dropping a bleak veil
of prolonged eventides
a sparse season's
dire landscape
professes a chill
of privation, across
frost crusted furrors
crowning cold fallow fields
resting from offerings
of a past season's yield
reaping passages
to the royal realms
the mystic visions of
this twilight nexus
germinating seeds
burrowed deeply in
recurring reveries
of future harvests
our dreamscapes
of abundance, sustained
in the deepest memory of
the advent of new seasons
Music Selection:
Paul Winter Consort: Icarus
Oakland
12/21/13
jbm
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
Seasoned Love's silent discourse,
Dusk of the long distance,
Beneath the mantle of lament
The peak bloom, gnawing decay,
Obscure
The weight of favor;
Annealing fire, moulded by
Winds of duration
Unfastening the raw surf of sorrow.
Incipient caprice, theft of occlusion
Colored by common defiance,
Vile tremors of privation-
Native enclave,
The province of
Vacant, age-eaten elucidation.
The tangled weave, pathos and ethos
Vested
Interior acquisition,
Furrowed paths of countenance
Evincive and drawn,
Affinity found, inhabiting the palisades
Of Immersion.
A furtive glance harbors
The trained gaze whose
Immanent flame-
Emergent
Serous source,
Imbued piercing latency;
A taste of
The fountainhead.
Unprobed theater of the absolute.
Thin supple pith
Identity sealed in skin
Perambulator of meaning and
Lineaments of cure.
Bearing the image of ubiquity
Perceives in the other,
Immortality.
Sacramental Eros,
Subsumes the
Capacity to treasure.
©2013 W.S. Warner
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
Abandoned, deserted and forsaken to whine.
In privation was he left lonely to pine.
His friends like a bird fled to another tree,
Leaving him to rot away in Dundee.
His soul was parched, pained and weary,
Longing him to be refreshed speedily.
His heart was sad, bitter and lorn,
Praying him this even to morn would turn.
And the laden lad afterward to London went.
By labour and favour did he an apartment rent
And began in earnest his early dreams to pursue,
Having himself picked up, as a man ought to do--
After a certain disappointment or fall in life--
Chasing no fantasy, frivolities, but working to rule;
Neither was he as afore again playing the pool
But was saving straight, and soon he success struck,
By heaven's fortune that to him came--nay by luck:
Like it's no fluke finding a goodly and godly wife--
It was by grace that he was wherefore blessed.
So his old chummy comrades to him returned to nest:
To wine and dine with him more like before. But he,
Once bitten, twice shy, was wise enough to repeat folly.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
You cringeworthy, evil pismire;
Your father did surely miss-sire
This personification of flatulence,
The embodiment of self importance
Overflowing with abject peccancy
Devoid of any sign of respectability
Replete with gross odoriferousness
Horribly and infamously unscrupulous.
You have reveled in misrepresentation
And tried to elevate your calumniation
Disinformation and deception exists
As capitalistic dissembling persists.
You’ve collected an evil government
Built mostly of human excrement
And have such a lack of veracity
That you speak in constant mendacity.
Sycophantic eructations of dogmatic bile
Issue from your unsympathetic smile
And your inauthentic glad-handed gropes
As if we all of us are unbright gullible dopes
That buy your fabrications completely
While you pilfer and prevaricate indiscreetly.
You are a Vaudevillian villain miscast as star,
But most of us know exactly what you are.
Deceit, deception, dishonesty; a tragedy
But not for you, for us and our country.
Distortion, evasion and fabrication the rules;
You despair of any other kinds of tools.
Falsehoods, fictions and forgery are your tricks.
You demand we build with straw-less bricks
Your erections that are planned to be palaces
Filled with your giant golden carved phalluses.
Those monuments, inanotomically correct,
Established to celebrate and somehow protect
A mountebank on the way to an overseas bank
Claiming to eradicate the scoria he creates
That decades of privation will not quite alleviate.
But you, the Great Prevaricator, will always blame
Other players in your sick, unconstitutional game
Instead of admitting your complicity and guilt
About the disgusting, putrid swamp you built.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
I cry for you Argentina
hectic planet’s southern corner
land of passion, crazy arena
aforetime our bonds were stronger.
No longer yours, you never mine
our lives belonged together once
I used to taste your scarlet wine,
your gorgeous girls, your charming dance.
The friends from ages, forgotten stories
so much privation, my heart is sore
my aging parents, the elder brothers
your call is clear I shall wait no more.
Exultant hugs, reunion is great
my parent’s sanctuary regaining life
but there is an end, a settled date
cruel farewell that sticks its knife.
I’ve seen those humid agates before
I've heard how silence can drown the wail
hair-raising feeling on every pore
they'll stand upright, I will be frail.
Oh, childhood playground! my old-time shelter
long time impeded of children laughing
no words no tears, this way is better
my love, my kids, my home are waiting.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 1:29 AM UTC
I plan on using your shaving mug.
a plan not worth telling
unless you knew of
the many howling adolescent evenings
I spent
jabbing my fingers in the snout
to touch your leftover hair.
It was stuck,
preserved with ancient soap,
cleansed of life, of pigment.
I wanted to touch the filament
that once burnt you
into being.
Yourself entombed
in pottered clay, soft beige
monument. The hands that once
shaped it, like yours;
they tend to me, bring me shape
in a formless world.
The same shoots grow here;
on my crown and over the temples.
I worship your concept,
myself a replication - thin haired
and inadequate. Less loved, more turbulent,
with naught left but life.
It's less than what you have;
idealised memory, a shrine of compliments,
a spotless life of saviour and sin.
How I love you, oh privation,
How I miss you,
dear Father.
now is the time though,
to clear my reflection.
now is the time
to wash you out.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
The path's deviation a lifetime's privation
Some degradation.
Like the spinning of yarns
Like spiders in barns
Like old men and soldiers I am tied to the boulders
Like Marley and chains
Like toothache and pains and loss with no gains
Here come the rains.
Like I'm ticked off with this
Like no Woman no kiss and no one to miss.
Like snakes that go hiss I crawl and I writhe
I tell terrible lies like I'm a prince not a pauper
Like I've two sons not a daughter.
It’s like I'm not to blame
There’s something wrong with my brain
Like I'm mad or insane.
Like a slow moving train or a triangular mangle
An obtuse acute angle.
Like I've done this before and put out like a *****
Like the clothes that I wore
Like my teeth again sore.
I am a transient being I don’t like what I'm seeing
In the mirror I look and like the words in a book
Which crackle and shackle my feet to the ground
I hear the witches cackle but I can’t make a sound.
Like a flute that’s gone mute or a trombone with no tone
I dangle my hope I don’t think I can cope.
Like the suns shining rays
Like I've burnt out my days so now I sit and I laze
Remembering faces and place coverings and carapaces.
Hiding in shells
Hiding from yells.
Like I'm missing life out but then it gives me a shout
And says come and stand in the light
Like get out of your night and walk into the dawning
Now is your morning.
Dance and be part of the beat of your heart
Like you were weak but be strong
Like you'll not wait for long
For your plate to be filled.
The earth in your soil tilled and what will grow there
Is a whole crop of care and a piece of the part
Of the birth of your start.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
It's your paradigmatic flexion
no one shall stop you
Nerves against the knife you dare.
Very well I may, but just this once
for I believe it's vile
Pucker the shattered pieces.
After all what's at stake
your existence was my mere bait
Cowardice defeats the brave.
You may not die my ilk
three, two, one, it begins
Body vs the soul.
You are bequeathed to wander
and I will stay unfathomable
Irony served on a lustful plate.
A knife, poison, a gun
but you are doomed to be awake
My privation will tardily **** you.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
I have reached the end
I am at last triumphant
I am pedigree of pious desire and knowledge eternally sacred
I have welcomed the pilgrims
I have guided their yearning will
To the celestial comforts of feathers’ yellows and sanctity’s whites
Whites white as my waving robe and now my thin white gown
In which I await my appointed time
My tongue is wriggling
Circling across my gums
In sensuous reveling of my life’s most blessed and greatest times
For I have laid eyes upon the glory of life’s highest gifts
For I have laid hands upon the most succulent succubus fertile hips
And I have supped of hymen’s glisten
I swam in Bacchus’s wines
I have recited doctrines of worship
I worshipped saliva’s shine
And I have observed communion
I drank it with ***** dust
I have read the hatha yoga
**** as the first man forged
And I have anointed blossoming ******* beneath the holy sigil
Sputtering laughter
Only trottel bows in truth and believes I dispense
A cleansing and redeeming eternal salvation
Have you no eyes to see my body’s common human shape?
Do you think I’m fat from God’s great love?
I cackle in the presence of such unwieldy weakness
Although my bones are sagging
More sagging is my wrinkled brain!
My memories are mating and birthing strange chimerical forms
They’re flooding and blending
Into vivid dreamlike collage
I see the faces of children I’ve taught
Atop necks of ****** I’ve known
The cheap locations of ****** have grafted with the echoing halls of cathedrals
Bizarre lights of nightclub glow are dancing upon spiritual texts
I hear an angelic litany
Sung through a stripper’s lips
I feel sheep’s wool
In the tousled hair of my boyish youth
I taste sweat in the bread of religion’s stoic privation
My air is growing more ragged
With every pitiful inhale I take
I feel light although I still see my heavy gluttonous flesh
My spirit is peeling away
Beyond my body’s earth
Arising high above from mortality’s curse
I am ascending into the holy realm
A realm with gates inviting
Like opened lotioned legs
I can see my own corpse
Surrounded by genuine reverence
They don’t even notice the shot glass
Still clutched in my pasty fist
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC
I walked with the hundreds
climbing mountain trails all day
and settling by the pebbles
at the summit, to hear you:
I, for one, never doubted
there was any scarcity of food;
Yes, you were always
a miracle worker.
On nights of wonder, you
spoke to us in secret on
marvelous things.
Actually, I did not care:
Whose grace floods the desert
and in whose law, love precedes,
such a one was with us and that was
all that mattered.
And now, by moonless nights,
when I stay up, alone and orphaned,
in struggle and privation,
I wonder, my friend, why is your
coming again set in the future?
Do you not come for love alone
than to keep the law? Do you
not part waters for our deliverance?
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
I cannot write an honest poem
in the fear of losing you.
That the shutters of concern
will be lowered, as everyone
turns to face the screen instead.
I cannot deal with blind windows,
I cannot suffer in privation.
But the thought of eyes on me
and sustained conversation
leads me to blackout again.
The story rolls on
and days keep coming by.
The seasons change
despite my lack of animation,
and they cause me
to see the world as it is.
The Agentic State
has stolen our land
and human nature.
We swallow stillness with panic
and over-stimulation;
no chance for peaceful completion.
I cannot give you any truth,
when my truths got me here
in the first place. I cannot
write to you about the coastline
as I never get to hold it.
All I can do is remain in my place,
tarry within the comfort of lies.
If you allow me more time
in poverty, I will repay you
in thoughts turned to rhyme.
Though I know you'd prefer cash.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
I can clearly state
And easily enumerate
No need to exaggerate
That in the aggregate
Up until the current date
The state of our beloved state
Has chosen to populate
The majority of the electorate
With the dregs of the vulgate.
I’m stating that our congress
Has become a total mess
With the outcome being less
Pleasing than a pool of cess.
With many of ‘no’ and few of ‘yes’
I fear we have to confess
We will be forced to dress
In ***** rags and even less
Too broke for a game of chess.
We are a buckless stag nation
On less than WW2 B rations
Caught in the collaboration
Between rightist indignation
And hyper-religious damnation
Golden calf worship and adoration
Built on the dollar sign adulation
Fostered by the dissembling peroration
By the authors of American privation.
Our representatives sell out constantly
And take in our dollars steadily
Saying yes to bribery readily
Feathering their beds happily
Ignoring their promises fearlessly
Because they proceed quite protectedly
From any repercussions legally
From the almighty powers that be
That coddle and tend them carefully.
It has to be that way necessarily
In this falsely-labeled free country.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
A million monarchs lie dead, though,
No less sociological programming of
Upper-middle to rich classes with
Decadence, affluence, inclusion, is.
No less societal determination of
Middle to lower, being excluded by
Division and conquering, privation.
Yet, they, on wing no more, still fly
In our spirit's eye, heal humanities' heart.
While their silent cry echoes
The 33,000 species extinct each year,
A rate not seen since the last ice age
Ensued; does it move you?
Does your curiosity ask why?
Will you, on this 33rd Earth Day, allow
A tear for all life's fallen? Consider
The losses economic apartheid incurs,
Mirrored by the divide humancentricity
Has levied? Our underlying duplicitous
Disregard for life, greed and oil fueled,
Won't abate for our existence, will you?
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 5:07 PM UTC
Each moment to myself,
I find that I am writing.
I am writing nonsense,
a stream of consciousness
to make my squalor appear
as a palace. To enforce beauty
out of a blind state of mind,
as those purple curtains
block out approaching daylight,
but retain the glean of the disco ball.
I talk to makeshift friends over
and over again in my head,
as I walk past the field of irises,
feeling them watch me
under the jittery yellow street-lights.
There are far too many poems
to be thrown out to strangers,
like lonely sambuca kisses
placed beneath the dripping raindrops,
falling from the alleyway stairs.
I know that poetry must be controlled,
to flourish only the best to others.
It is hard to leave words undisclosed,
when you can go weeks without a friend.
This is not a ***** call,
nor a target for pity in privation.
I have a degree in human minds,
I have a ***** and white skin
to get me through interviews,
and a tone of voice to escape all arguments.
Fix me with a stare
and I'll fix you up a drink,
no questions asked. We could be
ice bucket lovers, turning the tide
with pens and straws to mix the cola.
You'll reach out and kiss me on the cheek
to afford me lipstick sensation,
as I stumble without any cause
through this temporal employment;
this hiatus of youth.
One day I shall grow up.
One day, there will be no more poems,
and what is left will be the ghosts
to lay alongside old lighters and photographs.
I will forsake these pointless notebooks,
this obsession with laying experience
into metre, rhyme, and verse.
Soon, I will exchange my pen
for the television remote.
I will flick the channels,
I will smile at my life.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
I lean on you;
You need me;
We’re in debt to each other.
It’s simple, you see.
You work hard
And bring home the bread;
Without you, I’d starve
In my solitary bed.
You live in our home
Like a worker drone;
Without me you’d freeze
And be all alone.
Without you, I’d starve
Or live in privation,
We’re the lone citizens
In a private nation.
Though we never make love,
And rarely touch.
We must stay together;
For the world is too much.
Year after year,
We’re apart yet near.
No one dares rock the boat;
We’re so precariously afloat.
We could languish like this until we die;
We seem quite normal to the untrained eye.
And apart yet together, we could stay,
Until the tides of time just wash us away.
Finished on January 3, 2011
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 11:13 AM UTC
You *******
How dare you lie awake
And feel short-changed.
There are children in Africa-
No listen,
There are children in Africa
Did you know,
Eating dirt and drinking ****
And yet you lie there,
You *******
And lament the broken socket in the wall;
All those sorry women you didn’t lay.
What now?
A tantrum again, you *******
Your friends wont hit the town tonight,
And your woman wont let that depression bite,
So now your book will never get written
You ******* you ******* you *******
Your mother loved you
But it was the wrong kind of love.
And your father,
Your father left after you were born:
A peaceful death but a tasteless funeral.
He left before you could recall
A slamming of the door.
He left no trace for you to search
The corners of the Earth for his return.
There is a privation within you but you cannot create something out of nothing.
No, you needed a slam of a door,
And the ache of tension in your gut.
You needed the punch on your heartstrings,
To create the music and the art
That would finally validate your lack of colour.
Oh, you poor *******
Too unstable to hold down a job
And get a house in the burbs.
Too contented to set fire to the lot.
But I know you I do,
And you will pick up that guitar in a week or so
When I have set myself all tranquil-like
In the corner.
And you will try again,
Fruitlessly, may I add…
To concoct another potion of chords
To save another anonymous soul
That never needed saving.
And you hold out your hand
For just another ******* like yourself.
But I see you’re running late,
You must get to work.
You have small talk to be getting on with,
Yes, that dryness in your throat,
That heavy tongue
And those sentences you play out
In your head on your way into the office,
You know they will fall apart
Into useless, uninteresting stutters.
And the sweat under your armpits
Will cling to your ironed shirt
In your day-to-day panic attack
Of routine.
Yes, I’ll let you get on now,
And I will be waiting for you again
The next time you walk past a car window,
Or wash your hands in front of a mirror.
See you soon,
You *******
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
i do struggle to not make your tongue sour with this periodic harassment & dissonant conceit but i am compelled at last by the scarcity of savages who can see me in this desert. less feral & more clergy, the fabled selves of the world would be sanctuaried from my psychiatric violence. well attired passions always smell of fear & derision, further, & no less vile, arrogance & stupidity are known to capacitate spasmodic unceremonious coquetry. yes my mouth is a scavenger’s, but privation & dissatisfaction by design turn coat on the very messianic puppetry which their compulsory public refusal
had initially engendered. welcoming calamity i prey & arrow from afar & go on proving my self wrong in one last alexandrian charge to certify my renowned demise. no tricks or perversions barring what’s customary amongst outlaw noblesse. oh & do regard this new color on my face, & if you would, please, stop turning yours away from mine.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
It seems that just like prices
Your salary always rises
But when it comes to mine
You quickly draw the line
And tell me to do without
Then you begin to shout
That you are the party that
Always tips your hat
To the good old days
And the good old ways
How the country should run
But only you are having fun.
You and the other rich kids
Have all the toys and games
While our lives stay the same;
Underpaid and underfed
Until we are all dead
And only you remain.
That is your refrain
In the marching song you sing
And the privation you bring
With your deals and lies.
Just one of the guys.
And we are left out in the cold
Unless we happen to get bold
And call you out for villainy
For stealing every penny
And begrudging us an ounce
Of clean ***** on which to pounce
To grow a meager garden here
To feed us one more year.
But that seems against your rules.
We that are your tired mules
And can’t afford to bribe you
To do what you know you ought to.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
Once upon a time,
There was a Distant Land--
In the north were hills and valleys,
In the south desert sand.
Once a powerful empire,
This land now faced a threat
From outside intervention
That many would regret.
It welcomed a Mighty Country's
Involvement from far away--
Not fully realizing
The role that it would play.
A group from the Mighty Country
Helped organize a coup,
Destabilizing the other
And setting things askew.
A new regime replaced
The one that had been deposed.
However, the regime's tyranny
Soon became disclosed.
Discontentment grew;
The leader fled for his life
And begged the Mighty Country
For asylum for himself and his wife.
The people in the Distant Land--
Angry and abused--
Wanted their leader returned;
The Mighty Country refused.
So, the people took
Matters into their own hands,
Taking fifty-two hostages
For negotiating demands.
For 444 days
Conditions remained very tense
Until the release of the captives.
The damage was immense.
"Be careful what you ask for"
Is a common phrase.
The Distant Land now suffered
Tyranny in other ways.
The new religious leader
Ruled with an iron fist
And added more names
To his enemy list.
Eventually the Distant Country
Was attacked by its Neighbor,
Which received outside assistance
To help it sharpen its saber.
Help--for example--
From the Mighty Nation consisted
Of the selling of poisonous chemicals.
Frankly, that sounds pretty twisted.
Imagine the horrible suffering
From a war that went on and on--
Ending eight long years after
Battle lines had been drawn.
The Distant Once-Glorious Nation
And the Mighty Nation maintained
Their strained, aggressive relationship
From which nothing was gained.
Both accused the other
Of harboring evil intentions;
Both stubbornly resisted
Peaceful interventions.
The people were the ones who suffered
From dis- and misinformation.
The ones caught in the middle
Always experience privation.
Could this story end
Not with tears but with laughter?
Will the two ever live
Happily ever after?
- by Bob B
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
Hell, I'm the result of a decade or more of some coddle culture
******* left over from safety scissors bound up in bubble wrap
Much to do about feuding parties of mopped up has beens
Gutted and mutilated by the dullest claws, vomiting out soliloquy to someone waiting off screen
Feeding on attention when I've got none left to spend
Endemic of the stations fashioned on the broken bones of little kids
Who do you think you're kidding
Fitting each misfit with a fistful of
Faux Information
And letting them sort it out with perfect indigantion
Each stroke of a pen left blood on the page
And you wage war warning all of the names written
The only fitting way for you to die
Is in the cause you've helped create
Facing facts
Fabrication is largely left to the mental state
Of intoxicated fake plastic yet venomous snakes
Imagination only limited by wavelength
Of who's thoughts can last longest
Who can outlast
What class is the farthest when ranks are displayed
With golden tradition on vest made of clay
Surrounded by privation
Formal ware decays
When dinner jackets are
Met with machine guns
If its won by numbers, the race will all starve and
If science is ****** vanquished gods walk the streets
The enemy is what we've seen in the dreams
Not what befalls us in countless nightmares
Daring
My scrap meat is metal to build my machine
Body of parts I was so denied
Lithe and disjointed
Foraging necessities
Festering sensitivities lead to machinated loss of life
Let it sink
This ship is filling with the inked material lies
You claimed I could safely sail upon
Bailing out every word I despise
Something tells me, I'll find nothing to drown in
Nine o'clock
Weaponry only to serve me in time
Once in the presence of what I will claim is mine
Deep inside, rooted in every peer
Fear is the malady keeping them occupied
Each click represents a reclamation
Every time
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC