"proletarian" poems
I.
“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”
-Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window
Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death
Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone
II.
Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…
-Doctor Zhivago, p. 349
Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd
Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death
Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades
III.
“I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”
-Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light
Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied
With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
If corporate Dems tell me about how 'We all do better when we all do better'...
Or about how 'It's not about class, it's about coming out for Dems'...
Or about how, 'No one identifies with the working class' or 'nobody wants to identify with the working poor'...
I say to you, WE ARE THE WORKING POOR.
Look at the stains on their clothes, listen to their words, look at the rugged callous of their hands, who amongst us can last a job loss, or wage cut, or a car blow out?
None of us, cept the 1%.
We are the precariat class, the proletarian class.
I say to you, the working poor and homeless are the 'emarginati', the literal marginal ones, the ones at the edges of society.
But who, honestly, isn't at the edge???
The Democratic gubernatorial candidate turned carpet-bagging Congressional goon, Bank of America executive turned-state-CFO Alex Sink embodies the centrist-right neoliberal dogma of 'business-rules', who cares about immigrants besides those who 'clean our hotels and do our landscaping'.
Brand-imaging, quaffed corporate Dems are why the two-party system in broken.
Both parties are sell-outs to capital, and they think we don't know.
We know, and we remember.
Neoliberal capitalism of 'Washington Consensus' imposed on the rest of humanity will fall.
I just hope we wise up as a republic in the mean time.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
Bernie frames the TV
between his feet--
left hand remote,
beer bottle balanced
by his right—
clicks through half-time shows,
clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer,
a death-ray secret weapon,
clicks just to do it, an idiot’s
smile faint on his face.
he sees only noise
Emma tends her stamps,
perched on the plain board chair
she upholstered herself—
its arms worn, warm,
warmly welcoming—
her back to her husband,
her life as wife and mother
coming to a languid close.
she tastes some regret--
yet spicy with passion--
where life has had its way with her.
The rug’s bright stew of colors
can’t hide everything
children spilled
when they were young--
juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears;
little dreams,
tiny heartbreaks,
minor crises
ground into the weave;
all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs,
blood and sweat and nightmares congealed
into solemn patina--
I see protects it from time.
These solid objects—
stout, no-nonsense chair
wearing gouges, marks,
discolorations of use
and years like badges;
fat, chunky, cigarette-burned
BarcaLounger, drunk
from drink spilled
on every surface,
handle supple
as a young girl’s wrist,
swirling a territorial aura
around its microscopic
sphere of the universe;
and the rug…
unassuming, proletarian,
handmade and honest,
each scrap of fabric
chosen by the weaver’s hand,
now useful again,
reveling in redemption—
these solid objects
invade,
infuse,
invigorate
otherwise empty space,
squeeze meaning from the world
around them,
same as the hand of the artist
sculpts love from her heart
to give them life.
The children have moved away
Old friends are dying every day
Stamps no longer can be licked
There is no way to interdict
The Jets are losing again
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC
Delightfully force thyself to a cheap coat
Frayed winter shelter
Sworn fre-nemy of millennial style
Who kills itself in gale
While the master keeps cozy within your skin
Wonder if you’ll ever be so disloyal to dare ask for a bath
Then, in irony,
Loved and wanted by the living freezed
And the envy of the proletarian blanket
, shining in its absence-Your presence.
Under the carless hands of the master
Buttons drop and thread spills as solid blood
Doomed to fulfill the unchosen goal
Depletion will not be salvation
Just a mute shriek
living decomposition
Hope thy ist warm.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
Once
There was an ephemeral man
Precariously balancing on the ephemeral moon
That choleric moon
Always coughing and sneezing
Knocking off that precariously balanced man.
That parochial moon
With its offspring jogging and frolicking about
Maybe one day, that ineffable cough
Will be stopped.
The right thing
What is it?
I wonder
If you do the right thing--
Does it really make
everybody--
happy?
The proletarian moon child
Cogitated this
Along with a myriad of others
While gazing at the ephemeral stars
From the ephemeral moon
Apocryphal writings claimed the answer
But the child couldn't find solace in it.
So he jumped off
To join the vacuous inhabitants
Of the Earth below.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧
Incensed by mighty Milo, you act brave
then rage and bludgeon, shutting down dissent
while Mario Savio shudders in his grave.
Behold: another shameful sad event.
Youthful useful idiots on the attack,
pawns of global capital dressed in black:
Bernie's Berserkley: raze it to the ground
and Donald will be twenty-twenty bound.
Georges Sorel, amused, looks on in silence
at your half-baked proletarian violence,
infantile intifada, civil war,
a glimpse of what the future has in store:
you are the fascists you've been waiting for.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
Dastardly shovel
Mine blister inaugurator
Hand twisting back blazing wretch
Oh, the oasis pool
Cool; are you crystal clean, heaven seem
To this pyramid bottom letch?
Dean swims jolly fat
Pharaoh tan lazy landlubber ham lover
Fat ****** life quite a catch
Shovel I should launch you
Waterwards rust absurd curb lust
To watch you bust in a watery death
Maybe not before a cannonball
Six-foot tall water wall a lot of gall
You got kid, did you learn to save your breath?
Hide away from this blue collar day
Backbreak reality returns, furnace fanfare
Sailor sweat jumping ship not a hand left
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
Linking the ritual chronology of the past few days in accordance with 'The Boy's' 21st birthday. No longer a boy, but not quite a man, but unsure if that was the ambition at all. Linking the rites of spring with the rites of summer, endless summer, indian summer, endless ****** no longer sure, were we ever, and did we ever want to be?
The seasonal threshold coupling the brutality of summer freedom. All those years on the bench in systemic education, waiting, counting the days until the breakout of summer, the breakout of the nation-wide epidemic of drips of sweat rolling down foreheads, cars racing up and down the highway going anywhere but home, if only for a few minuscule hours of freedom. Not really knowing what to do; the only certain knowledge; that doing anything is better than doing something, whatever that means.
Proud proletarian patriot, hating with every inch the structure and the scaffold, the zephyr swishing and swooshing over the surface of the storefront, while the air condition whirrs away, in a little town on a little island in a massive inlet in a vast sea, tossing and twisting, raging and blistering with the toils of work, throwing rhetorical fists in the air like-you-just-don't-care, with drops of Digital Ink. –with that strange symbiotic disharmony that emits from the boy's fingers, fuelled with every every-day stimulant, caffeine, nicotine, THC; Trembling Hallucinogenic Creation. The ongoing tremble of uncertain fingers, searching for a certain certainty he knows he'll never see.
And therein lies the tragedy
But also the beauty.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
In my mind I am a dancer,
Gracefully pirouetting.
My lithe body painting a picture on the floor,
Slender arm extended.
So enchanting that gravity gives up it’s hold on me,
and my leap sails like a ship among the stars,
and I might never fall.
In the mirror I am a fishwife,
Dully hawking.
My thick body smelling of the rotten wares,
Meaty arm extended.
So proletarian that dreams deny me,
and my eyes deaden like a ****** among johns,
and I might never look up.
In my mind I am champion,
Boldly crusading.
My strong body leaving a sea of blood upon the field,
Sword arm extended.
So formidable that fate fears to tempt me,
and my cuts fall like the wrath of God upon the sinners,
and I might never be vanquished.
In the mirror I am a *******
Feebly waiting.
My broken body seeming more useless everyday,
Emaciated arm extended.
So inadequate that movement massacres me,
and my lungs constrict like a boa around its meal
and I might never survive.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:15 PM UTC
Sorting Out Russian Poetry
Avant-garde post-modernism ego
Futurism symbolism acme
Ism constructivism cosmopol
Itanism formalism neo
Formalism futurism imag
Inism proletarian real
Ism absurdism maximalism
Socialist realism, nothingism -
Poetic beauty, in spite of the Isms
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 7:05 PM UTC
Borodin's On the Steppes of Central Asia
Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute. But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute. Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the pot-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is stained with victory.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC
They told us the news this Friday noon
That her desk was empty, much too soon
said, tomorrow theyd take her to stone
And that the reasons were still unknown
She was a good girl, got good grades in school
Was well behaved and wasn't ever rude
What took her would never be found
She had buried it deep and covered it around
I don't see her when I enter the same old class
She was always on 2nd bench from last
Doing her thing, drawing a doodle too good
There was not much to see in her mood
Must be a proletarian, I had thought
Cuz so was I, just not so lost
All the conversation I had was 'hello Miss"
"Hello, Mr." She said. " Drop the miss, if you please"
That was all I ever said, I regret it now
I don't know why but I miss her somehow.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
I am beset by boorish, bloated, behemoths
who broadside benevolent busboys by the boatload
I do not pause to stop and stare
With indifference and despair
Do I circumnavigate an indifferent globe
I am surrounded by salacious supplementals
who stand silently still in streaming sunlight
I do not return their glare
I run my hands through thinning hair
and wince at ignorance made flesh
I am besieged by bracingly belligerent bumblers,
The kind of verbal tumblers who fail to jump through hoops,
These self-proclaimed acrobats, put to shame by pussycats
All too often follow circuitous routes
these pitiful proletarian ponderers, as little more than wanderers
On a plane that reaches no destination
They do daily buy their ticket, but to me it's just not cricket
For we are here and then we die, go to the ground not to the sky
and now I lay me down to sleep, in a wooden box that wasn't cheap
and all the while the bleating sheep hear no-one but themselves
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Avant-garde post-modernism ego
Futurism symbolism acme
Ism constructivism cosmopol
Itanism formalism neo
Formalism futurism imag
Inism proletarian real
Ism absurdism maximalism
Socialist realism, nothingism -
Poetic beauty, in spite of the Isms
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
Borodin’s "On the Steppes of Central Asia"
Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute. But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute. Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the pot-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is stained with victory.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
☭ ♡ ☭ ♡ ☭
You posed yourselves (in radical English)
with fellow-travelers on the barricades.
recalling bygone barrio fusillades
though you speak only red diaper Spanish…
Beholding the party cooperative
where ****** tourists are shown Cuban truth,
you cherished the lies of your leftist youth,
half-informed, predictably progressive.
Stuffed full of radicalized rice and beans,
flatulent, dreaming of ignoble Che
you charmed the sultry proletarian queens.
In your new Guayabera, bonafide,
you hailed the revolutionary day;
pale thorn in the suffering People’s side…
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping ******* plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly ***** plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Our straw boss, now, she hyphenates her name
And there is something frightening about
Those faux dashes stapled between the nouns
Her proper nouns, as if they might slip loose
And fall onto the pages of Debrett’s
As isolated bits of DNA
Dropping their aitches and their gees, oh, please!
So tack that Burberry hyphen back again
Let no proletarian taint be seen -
Made in China becomes Fabrique en Chine*
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 3:53 PM UTC
A dandelion allures an essence of the innocent,
Distinct from a **** once puffed flurries offspring of homogenous descent.
Proletarian by nature, now **** without seed,
That puff propels my wealth and now I can lament.
Bees harbor resentment, “You can’t pollenate me!",
Enticed by sinuous poison and overlooked by the Bourgeoisie,
Cautiously creeping like honey’s viscosity in vain,
Synchronicity is cut short swiftly by A Coup de Main.
_TRF
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
Borodin: On the Steppes of Central Asia
Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute. But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute. Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the pot-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is glorious with victory.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
Heaves of Gas
I sing the bodiless electronic
Manly working man blank verse flannel shirt
All gone now
Pajamas and video games
Cupcake competitions instead of schoolyard tug-o’-war
A gap-toothed grilled-cheese sandwich singing under the sea
Bi-polar bears alt.yawn Revolutionary Proletarian Art with
Selfie Sticks
Banana Daiquiri Republic
Must be nice to be a thinker all great
Adored by all, and subsidized by the state
Made in Nicaragua by free-range artisans, I think
Re-Presentation
Rhinestone tattoo flipflopped knee-pantsies and a cartoon tee
Die, Webinar, Die
Up the Revolution you can’t make me clean my room
Machine against the rage on the cosmic app
Renewable green sanctions
Double-double boil and bubble a froth’ed mocha decaf with a
tinkling of Cinnamon
We are the drones we have been waiting for
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
_The hammer and sickle as a symbol
of proletarian solidarity was first adopted –
as Russian: серп и мо́лот, translit. serp i mólot:
"sickle and hammer" – during the Russian Revolution._
About ORISHI-rishi;
Life is linked to a new product
in the world's largest oil market;
I write this letter to your email address,
for example, a letter, letter, letter,
letter, letter, letter, letter, letter, letter,
letter, letter, letter, letter, letter, letter,
letter, letter, letter, letter, letter, letter,
today, today, today, today, day, | night and day.
Fruits, wool, sheep, goats, sheep, sheep,
goats, sheep, goats, goats, goats, goats, sheep,
goats, sheep, goats, sheep, goats, sheep and goats,
the science of sheep is safe
and is the best way to capture our interests.
But now our quality and our high speed,
speed, speed, speed, speed, speed, speed,
speed, speed, speed, speed, speed, speed,
speed, speed, speed, speed, speed. Bicycle cycle assembly Bicycle cycle Bicycle case Bicycle case,
a lawyer who is a member of a man's gift.
According to L, humidity and temperature are very low.
In fact, even at this level of competition.
What is happening with this site? Treroki Restaurant
Cover photo, Butter photo, itenit'et'ewochi Butter?
sanijo, sanin sētochi glory; Of course, "skin" is not without pride.
German, Italian, German, Spanish, Spanish,
Portuguese, Turkish and one hundred
and sixty Russian countries. Make sure the food is safe:
touch the Soprano;
Back products with your hands,
to use dark skin on the nerves,
sometimes with a good conscience of the hours,
days and days, the mouth in mouth, the moon,
the writing In the form of consciousness of rupture,
the conscious and intelligent, beautiful,
beautiful girl has decided to be a girl;
An auxiliary playground for brave soldiers,
and all the ideas that should be understood
about the meaning of life,
which are waiting for everyone to kiss softly,
a large-scale kitten, to kiss Grows to breathe,
a young man who is Blowing marks of feet and poems in the air.
Anne Nathan during these three
and five years of music videos, |
these patterns will touch the hot summer,
during the second and the summer of autumn and fall,
in summer and summer, the summer
of summer, summer trees, without the mining of late.
The weather, as completed by a Beautiful Lull,
began to take their children off the street with a good smoke.
Diana is the mother of the day.
The mountains of the future. German, German,
Spanish, German, European, Spanish, musical instruments and musical performances,
to interpret Van Gogh's role with dreams,
little vitamin and cosine, from the school
or the dreamer: in Bethlehem, Beck, Edono
vinegar Products,
Jack, Holy Fire and all your guards,
but you're in the city of nine of five |
of new citizenship over the weekend,
blessed are the parents, our Van, the signs of my years with him.
This is Russia's great argument. Who will it be?
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 1:41 AM UTC
Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute. But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute. Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the pot-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is bright with victory.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC