"proletarians" poems
*Skim milk masquerades as cream
Wolves self-ordain themselves as custodians
Of the “good” of sheep and that they’re a team
In the quest for universal good, poor proletarians.
A fattened up emaciation
That derails the pursuit for accountability
Paving way for many a loophole
A stranglehold on emancipation
The sheep simply merely sign a treaty
With fate to elongate their back breaking life before taking a stroll
In either heaven or hell, that’s if an afterlife exists.
The wolf menace is thus a malignant cyst
To “body politic”
Posing mind boggling potential harm, worth incisive critique.*
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
Over and over again
the ongoing psychosis named reality
throws at us the vile complications of existence
like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll
when you are born among proletarians
and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist
like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights
men that walk the same sidewalk as you
the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions
trapped in the same staircase of materia
causing the universe to circle reason
and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence
like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film
as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern
battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses
while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues
like the sorrows of young Werther
in the blood of your martyred nightmares
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
the dead leaves seem alive
in the shifting shadows of the overhanging branch
attached to its grim wood
a plastic bag wavers in the pattern of breeze
its slow swinging reveals its contending fears
a hanged man still bearing his deck of marked cards
a devilish grin painted with childlike hand on his
grey and drawn face
he seems to speak
you await his words
but like the leaves it is only the
shifting shadows here that are alive
and they have intents of their own
fever grips my hand
leads my pen astray with clowns of satire
and proletarians of ridged senseless order
i shall feast here on these spent moments
like the miser fondling his coin
and let the hanged man be
his own abuser
i am the root of my own evils
and have no desire to live with his
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
.
"The Com
minists dis
dain to con
ceal their views
and aims. They
openly declare
that their ends
can be attained
only by the for
cible overthrow
of all existing
social condition
s. Let the ruling
classes tremble
at a Communist
revolution. The
proletarians have nothing to lose
but their chains. They have a
world to win. Working men of
of all coun tries, unite!"
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
"In paradise the work week is thirty hours
salaries are higher prices always dropping
physical labor is not tiring (because of lower gravity)
chopping wood is like typing
the social system is stable the government moderate
it's certainly better in paradise than in any country
At first it was supposed to be different
luminous circles choirs and rungs of abstraction
but one couldn't separate body from soul
precisely enough and the soul would arrive
with a drop of blubber a thread of muscle
one had to compromise
mix the grain of the absolute with the grain of clay
still another falling away from the doctrine the ultimate one
only John foresaw it: the resurrection of the body
God is seen by few
exists only for those made of pure pneuma
the rest listen to communiqués about floods and miracles
in time all will see God
when this is to take place nobody knows
In the meantime Saturday at noon
the sirens roar sweetly
and heavenly proletarians come out of the factories
carrying their wings awkwardly like violins"
Zbigniew Herbert
translated by Oriana Ivy
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
Posh shows her baby to the **** press
Gaga gets out her milky white *******
and all I think is of the new world
we are so ****** *******
As time resist saying no no
we push it aside for here we go
they pay more for a football player
then charities seeking world peace
This is the justice of the modern age
maybe I will be the same, be a total Runt
pray to God saying none should survive
all on this backward world should die
This world is full of *** holes and prats
it's November but the turkey is getting fat
yet children in 3rd world sh*t holes
will just be starving with no Christmas cheer
The puritanical plastic smiles on news updates
they will say with the Devil in their eyes
happy Christmas you mug proletarians
as they look at a black lens, thinking it your face
One by one my kind will wake you
look deep into your eyes to see if you care
but I know what will come of it
there will be death everywhere
Shove the whole lot on a big red bus
the biggest bus in the world
and burn it, burn it out
till all the cankerous sores have been rid of
Christmas is coming
the goose is a *****
and the angels of death
will be knocking at your door
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC
An arc of embodiment
Decadent perfumed petticoats swirled to order
Power ****** from the sweat of the land
Stone hewn from its very foundations
A spider's web encloses the flowering art
Phoenician helmeted raiders
Roman taxing invaders
Trespassing Gaulish voices
Thumbed rosary transcenders
The dawn of a walled resistance
A Religious pandemic
Storming Carcistes
Razats rebel
Friends denounce their own
A castle evokes revolutionary fever
Ghosts reverberate running the embattlements
Proletarians open the walls
Guardians red and blue
White clergy take the souls
Swords discarded, a tricolore soars
Slaves to the chisel
Open pits for Vulcan to dip his toes
Gothic Cavernous quarried vaults
in search of Sade’s demons
Stone to shape Provencal style
Dereliction a Maquis delight
Refuging resistance and the persecuted
Destruction and collapse
Artisans and folk revive
Paint brushes to the fore
Transientents page the streets with blood red gold
A coat of arms rings its bell
Lowly hovels now adored
Gaping holes swallow the light
Sleepers enrichen the ground
Too long a museum
Stirring string notes
Cherups embrace their calling
Voices rouse the deities
Banners furl in mistral breaths
Spirits hightail Lacoste’s new allies
Iced sun rises over Luberons range
Warmth caresses the blood of day
School children playing, wake the sleepy
Warm stews vie with Pistou
Hallowed vines are groomed
Long walks with herbs to find
Boars try and outwit their hunters
Dogs smell the truffles afar
Ventoux snows cool the view
Cyclists roar through in celebration
Village a transforming microcosm
Artists absorb, evolving a creation
Animate habitants living and the vogue
A hearty cocooned culture emerging out into
longer days luring the coming spring
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 9:51 AM UTC