"regimes" poems
Dear Poet Friends, Here is a poem by a young Canadian poet named Darien, which I found while browsing the Net! I would like to share this with you as a prelude to my poem about the 'Rise of The Third Reich', - which I hope to post on this Site shortly. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi
World War II - ADOLF ******
by DARIEN, Aug 21, 2006
Austria raised a man so vile and vicious
His life was dark, callous and malicious
Passions of hatred engraved in his mind
As he plotted to create his own mankind
A soldier for Germany in World War One
War to end all wars had only just begun
The National Socialist Party appeared fast
Their numbers grew rapidly as time passed
Charismatic oratory and propaganda his tool
False promises made, people he would fool
Were Nazis the one to bring hope? Perhaps
Without their help Germany would collapse
The Reichstag Fire would be a stepping stone
Germany's President died, he took the throne
He became the fuhrer leader of all Germany
And would start the worst war of the century
War had been started with a Nazi-Soviet pact
Together with Russia, Poland they attacked
England and France were not ready for war
Marching of Nazis soldiers was not ignored.
Mussolini became his ally and supported him
For all other countries their chances were slim
Many countries were defeated in a few days
the Fascist and Nazis would give him praise
Blitzkrieg was a strategy that worked most
In defeating all his enemies he came close
The Nazis would spread all across Europe
But it would be at Stalingrad they would stop
Communist regimes were one group he did hate
Yet it was the Jews he would try to annihilate
In all cruelty, bloodshed, war would soon end
There was still so much for people to defend
On V-Day he saw all his armies demolished
****** and fascism in Europe was abolished
World War Two ended the areas were secure
From that evil, monstrous beast Adolf ******
- By Darien. (Canada)
..........................................................................
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
to ones wronged or irked by some stupid bullsh#t
and who may have an itch to do some ruin—
—ation, e.g., shoot some bullets
all the imprudent bullies
and corrupt ****** contributing to in—
—justice will do as ones to subject to a punishment
[mafias & agents of authoritarian regimes]
and if you are one of 'em
a few words regarding your funeral
[if there will be one]
hope it will be at odds with the usual
it should be a carnival to the bone
whether or not that is suitable
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.
Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal. I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.
Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.
Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.
Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!
Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.
Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.
Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.
Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.
Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Started with selling lollipops out my locker, to pushing stocks, to selling beef with coco buns like Betty croocker. my gang green, a seal team, running schemes, wit; wicked regimes then moved up to the major leagues- with upper decks, up my sleeve. capture your spirit, just to set it free. dark knight, captures white king; wouldn't stop riding me. pawn moves, worth the trouble; it's two easy. Throwing stones, and Sandz castles, these haters tryin to castle me in; it don't appease me. these drag queens, keep turning there back; showing thier *** and tattle tails; like lil sis-sees. these miss-fits couldn't **** wit- me if they came in ultra HD, my Cats 5, and they treating me like I'm Mr. IP, darker the Wesley, I'm stone cold rocking an Iced-T, your Bud got wiser but it still ain't ******* with D. then grab Kim car dash and-be back by three, send Kanye west, to get Ad vice from me. my marketing skills so nice, I just capitalized. on the lies of our lives, of all three. These dudes the Wizard of Odds, fake pretend; Wizards of Oz, chasing the Wizard of Gods, reading scripts written by me. I wrap with a cause, like I''m passing the bar, in limbo with these dudes at odds with me. I'll dot their eyes, like Kimbo was training me. Their label-mates ****** in Big T's, liking on their selfies, on sell phones. I'm on roam, in Rome, using Google Chrome to Google Earth, on my eye phone- writing this from the O-zone, so that the people reading this will be like O'No - this dude is cold. I'm opt to much prime, all the timethen phone home- transfer the message, like Otimos prime
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
All weapons of
the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
this pen I wield
The power to
articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
to detonate
The conflicts waged
gambling mankind
My perfect hand
is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
battlefront
With metaphors
of mindless drones
Like similes
to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
and IED's
Can't build bridges
like ABC's
Or tear them down
with death regimes
By rusting through
the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
verbal grenade
With ****** noun
scorched-earth tirade
On militant
cold-blood elite
King cobras know
I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
resolution
Winged raptor
devolution
Prehistoric
barbarism
Literacy
cataclysm
Stockpiling
extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
fallout stones
My Hiroshima
prose explodes
With nuclear
bushido codes
Released from my
katana's ward
To free my press
from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
imagery
And samurai
epigraphy
Expressions of
my ronin soul
Omitted by
the daimyo
Satsuma is my
poetry
My final draft's
Nagasaki
Ink cartridges
strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
or background check
And ****** every
live round free
Of innocent
blood elegy
And killing sprees
of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
black and blues
A Number 2
pencil dependent
Obsolete
lead-head amendment
Open carry
shoots a blank
Empty shell case
at my think tank
So grip this peace
then **** and pull it
**** my diction
write the bullet
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
A rapid beating heart that stands next to you always,
I find myself atop this life intertwined between these melodic days.
Fight and quarrel about is the normality of human nature,
for it's those that can heal the wounds through love and pure conversation who should sign the everlasting legislature.
Love is a fickle sport of chance it seems,
cheers and jeers from the moonlit love we all yearn for in our dreams.
I'm emotionally tearing at the seams as I am done with these schemes,
no more joining of the socially pressured regimes.
Your love is all I need and all that is true,
I want to live every moment with you again and again as an everlasting deja vu.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
This country's being privatized
By politicians using private eyes
Manipulating through public lies
And their hate filled cries
The question becomes a stark why
We ask the dark unwise
Driving us to laced dimes
Or writing ****** rhymes
Love is the answer I surmise
Nobody else buys
Emotions have no value in the marketplace
Unless you're of a certain race
That reminds them of themself
Then they're more likely to share their wealth
We need more than paper *****
To tear down these paper walls
The order becomes too tall
When we apply an objective concept (currency)
To a subjective principle (value)
Our ideas of value get tangled
Our empathy is mangled
Our discourse becomes angled
Discussions turn to wrangles
And cats are bred Bengal
As our domestic lives
Never left the jungle
But there's always a rumble
Regimes always tumble
Humanity continues to stumble
Earth's health starts to fumble
Molesting the planet like a creepy uncle
Until we see our follies unfold
Then will we be so bold
To say we can do it on our own?
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
Crashing off caffeine.
My body's in a wet dream.
Spazzing,
orgasmically
twitching as I'm switching
up the rhyme scheme
with a little bad timing.
I'm spacey like Kevin.
I get **** like Mooney.
Looney-toony in the boonies
gettin lucky like Slevin.
Super nerdy like Melvins.
Getting heated in Kelvins.
In a spectrum
I'm extreme
like 1000 baby screams
or something obscene
like genocidal regimes
dumping bodies downstream
with severed heads in their ******
I'm darker than my complexion.
Come in! Your more than welcome.
Just let me wipe the slate clean.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
Realization Alliteration Poem
4/23/2013
Radical reforms
Revealed and revered
Reveled in without reserve
Reject rest until wrongs righted
Resistance looks radiant red like radishes
Recently reequipped with righteousness reacting like radiation
Rowdy crowds race like rabbits to meeting rooms
Rain and rapiers can't quell rampaging rallies without recourse
Reserves have been replicated, ready to razzle and rebuke, revenge
Reclaim rusted roofs of the ruins, wrecked in rural rubble's roots
Reality's reign can't be reversed so remember it, refuse to relive it
Run from its reach, relying on the rare reward you've received, a refuge
Recognize that regimes rotate routinely like roadkill riding on rail-cars drinking with rancid rats
Reach for the receiver, become a redeemer, referee your own rehab, require resolute ripples - realization.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
We turn trees upside
down
and sideways with strife,
and the battle for the spotlight -
blowing holes in the earth to prove a point
that the "fortunate" are better than those
with voices tied and bound by conspiracies and political regimes.
So we pollute and dilute our resources
to prove that we can inflict change on the way of life,
and the ways of those with less than those on the other coast,
and what if its just your lens that needs turning upside down
to see that the fortunate may not be you and me.
that wealth may not sit in things
and values measure by monetary means
that wealth may not even be
a measurement of the fortunate and lucky.
But those with toes stuck to the earth
and time told not by ticking and flicking hands
but rather by the dependable rising and setting sun,
that just maybe they're the lucky ones,
and what's luck to do with life anyways
if luck is self contrived and inflicted
why not lend notion to finding value not in something that we can power,
and not in something that we can change
with the next wave of rage and flight for a new craze
but rather something that gives us power to breathe and see
the beauty in a sparkling sea
but no, no we cannot see it that way
because our long led wars
to prove that we can control
have lead the dim of the sparkle and the adjustment of the lens
to be so small
that only a bullet can be sent
through to horizon once blue
but now painted in red
by our greed fed actions.
but what is it that they always said?
You've made your bed,
now you must lie in it,
but why not raise our heads,
and greet this new moment
with a new perspective
of changing the aperture of our lens
to allow for a wider view
that goes beyond the understandable
and opens our eyes, our only real lens
to all the lies we've paved this world in
if you could see what I'm desperately trying to plea
than I strongly believe that you and me,
we...we could be the new key
to the world's long muted positivity
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
your beauty put nations into dispute
trying to benefit from the rewards of your youth
for every treasure there's nothing to spare
they used you, abused you, then left you in despair
you've welcomed other nations to experience your land
but your slaughter is what they've plotted that's what they've planned
never have you ever became selfish of your beauty
but you failed to discern the hands of the greedy
your pillars they shattered into pieces
your temples they burned down to ashes
you called for gods but it is the gods who are the roots
one even turned his back after gaining from your loots
you offered so much but they left you nothing but scars
you gave them beauty they gave you famine and farce
should you have invited Eris?
behold, you're the victim of war between these deities
whoever obtains this apple is the fairest
whoever consumes you will be the greatest
war is the immortals' way to argue
they saw your beauty but they never saw you
one bribed you to rule other nations
another bribed you to be the warrior of your fictions
then one bribed you with your weakness, your ambitions
oh my land, you fell. let me ask you my greatest questions.
who are you?
have you forgotten your identity?
why are you allowing yourself be defined by the words of these false deities
why do you still call your oppressor a hero
until when are you going to stay on this limbo
you are Thetis and Peleus not inviting Eris to avoid strife
but you also are the golden apple causing the immortals seek for your life
you are Paris being promised of your dreams
but you also are Helen the most beautiful woman in the history of regimes
you are the war itself, oh my land
your destiny resides on your hand
you are every character of this myth
of your own sword you are the smith
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 7:15 AM UTC
poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Sitting in the gutter
Cause its the only place to see
What guts are
Wondering does anybody
Fight for anything
Anymore?
Cause I don't see it
I see people walking past
Opportunity
Walking away from things
With ease
Cold feet
Treading cautiously
Feeding doubts fire
Going about Life so passively
But Hold up let's join a cause!
Direct our anger
Politically, racially,
at poverty and inequality
Donate some money
Rant constantly about
Overturning regimes
Then retreat back to apathy
Woe is me!
Bleeding hearts in their masses
Floating past me
In the gutter
Cause its the only place to see
what guts are...
And hearts
Cause no one has heart anymore
Where is the love?
Where is the passion?
The courage and the loyalty?
All Going about life so Half heartedly
And what can you do with half a heart?
Give it to Me
Cause as I'm sat here
Reading entrails like some gypsy
Passing judgement on you
A poor reflection on me
It seems I lost mine
So I embrace the pain
that migrates from
an empty chest to
A swelling stomach
Lift myself up from that gutter
And feel what guts are
Take half that heart
And see how far it'll take me...
To make it whole
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
There's a room somewhere,
locked fast behind an unassuming door
looming grey-brown at the end of a
misshapen corridor.
Inside, the relics of a time lost in time
to time.
A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature
of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell,
smelling of adolescent sweat,
still dusted with sandlot crumbs,
a reminder of those ground *****
that sped by too fast to field,
those fly ***** just out of reach,
suspended in a June twilight
lost to time.
Ribbons and awards and certificates,
signed by leaders of puny regimes
paved and repaved over,
proof of a world before this,
an era of (now) perceived achievement,
legitimized, glorified by Old English type
printed on recyclable stock paper.
Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops,
receipts of a linear plotline:
Drama, comedy, a budding romance -
Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen
but ultimately unfulfilling;
the plot peters towards the end.
Lost in time the boy cries out
with no one left to answer but the man
who, as quietly as he entered it,
exits the room,
as always, leaving the door just ajar,
enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy
chasing an invisible horizon.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
**Maybe this is our opportunity to finally see change
we've endured a system archaic and strange
we've watched the world revolve quicker than us
because we are stranded while the rest shift on the wheels of revolution
maybe this is the time you made that resolution
to constantly remind your brother and sister
Father and mother that that position needs a new sitter
maybe this is the time to say enough is enough
however much it instills in you fear, however tough
maybe it's the time we finally say to hell with the past
because like they say to stone nothing is cast**
*and the only thing that doesn't change is change itself
otherwise for how long will one old man exploit our insecurities?
For how long are they going to tell us that change is unsafe
A different time a different king even the monarchs say
what are we saying in our deafening silence today?
maybe this is the time to tell even the most ignorant by the country mile
that only and only a different king will dry their tears and give them a smile
we've been told he's the only man with foresight
come on,how are we to judge the rest without chances
for so long change has been a distant vibration along the threads of time
and opposition to conservatism a crime
maybe it's time for that to change too
and guess who can do that, only me and you*
**maybe it's time to flip the page for this great country to start another chapter
And it doesn't have to be all smooth a flow to happily ever after
Let other dancers step to the podium
and only then can we judge their dances
maybe it's time to another hunter we handed the arrow and bow
maybe now is the time for a different color on the rainbow
It cannot forever be a constant yellow
for even God saw however beautiful they look
the skies shouldn't always bear a sparkling mellow
sometimes the sky is cloudy, orange and most times blue
maybe it's time like I clearly think from my own view
for as a generation we are being denied the opportunity of comparative history**
*what will we tell our children happened to democracy
where did we throw, they'll ask all the resilience and efficacy?
maybe it's time to get back our country from the liberators
who use the same cuffs of the past regimes to manacle this country
and have since grown tall and firmer than palm tree
we have watched them wallow and buzz for so long
but for an idea whose time has come nothing is that strong*
**maybe it's time to save the embezzled donations and every single grant
a time to say confidently "to Hell with the tyrant"
maybe it's a time to be the change we want, the answer to all of our questions
and shove those that think we can't
maybe it's time to go past the roughing waves of conservatism as they whirl
maybe it's time to save our lovely nation
for at the moment, in very wrong hands lies the Pearl.**
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
And just what are you expecting to see?
Two eyes just like mine, hands that ache to feel flesh, there is something to fabricating love,
Adequate to say that these threats will go unheard, and through the years I'll get to say I told you so, yet I still feel like a failure,
Cross check the references, comb the referrals, you've got the experience for every job but the one you want,
I find security in preserving the real me,
Over thinking on what should be said next, when just their presence will suffice, trying to explain to yourself how to not sound crazy, all the while talking to yourself.
We all do it,
Some things are better left in that awkward silence, the longer it holds the more said than words could ever entertain, no pure thought is safe,
An invasion that's become obsession,
Even if I tell you all my secrets, there is still apart of me I'm missing, not even I can find it alone
My ego tends to show through,
I get it confused with my personality, which in turn doesn't show much as my skin, cursed to oblivious stares,
Then again I've been talking to myself,
Usually just saying hello, possibly singing some tune, or my favorite describing exactly what I'm doing in confusion,
"What am I writing?"
A taste of reality from the insomniac ramblers program, a show free to watch, and real physical participating with the whole gang,
Hold on tight to this thread,
Your future with me will not be what we expect, I recommend strict regimes for personal viewing times, our minds are hesitant to believing what's in the mirror
I see me, and I see you
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
If they had their way all they would say
Is ignorance is bliss, save it for another day
They say I
Should let sleeping dogs lie
Tell me I have got nothing to prove
Why don’t I just move on?
Tell me why not let sleeping dogs lie
You’re only gonna cause more pain
Open a can of worms when there’s nothing to gain
But they don’t know that every waking minute
I’m getting closer to reaching my limit
Cos even in my sleep you’re haunting my dreams
Unless I **** the lies I can’t be done with these regimes
Don’t ask why
Even sleeping dogs lie
When they rest on a bed of untruth
Nothing but lies burn through
Let them die, let their sleeping lies die
Cos sleeping isn’t dead and buried
And the lies and the cheating aren’t temporary
And they don’t know that every waking minute
I’m getting closer to reaching my limit
Cos even in my sleep you’re haunting my dreams
It’s time to **** the lies so I can be done with these regimes
It's high time
To let sleeping dogs die
I have got nothing left to lose
I’ve paid all of my dues
Let them die, let those sleeping dogs die
Cos sleeping isn’t dead and buried
When the lies and the cheating aren’t temporary
Copyright © 2017 KF
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
I know your pain,
They broke my bones and divided me.
Where have you been?
It’s been 19 years of this ****** mess.
This is your mother asleep at the wheel, This is your brothers blood in the backseat
When everything you love only seems like something you feel.
Sacred sediment wrapped in white gold.
Shiny as god’s revolver but twice as cold.
What you hear is all Casablanca and she’s shivering cold.
They took your teeth, fragments of what they sold.
Take these seams from me.
Split them down these American IV dreams.
Take these seams from me.
Take these two lips, cut me clean and free.
She put me out like a cigarette.
Burned at both ends.
And my history to the anesthetist
and my body to surgeons
Take these words from me.
These cystic fibrosis regimes.
Take these words from me.
Light blue collar worker bees.
- MW
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
The national pride is nullified by the constant buzz of shores
being broken down and beaten with patrol boats
scouring the waves for lame boats carrying
malnourished passengers to a land of plenty.
With searchlights and stern rugged faces
blue uniformed and well fed, border patrol
scout out the weary travellers braving the high seas
and sharks to find a safe heaven in some hidden cove.
Pest control is serious business. Unlucky to be caught
and housed in centres with rationed food and worn clothes
herded into bare camps, often deported back
to home turf, the pest control cycle continues.
Take heed. A nation is built on pests., working hard, saving
every cent, running against the clock, against government agencies, starved and poor, defeated in justice, welfare,
community, papers, education and livelihood, slinking through
alleyways of paper networks, low paid, often beaten and bruised
packed in housing crates, stacked storeys high, nation building
begins at the journeys first step away from regimes too busy amassing wealth and wonder for themselves.
Nation builders are the pests you want. The pests you spend your money to keep away from your own backyard
for a vote for safety.
Pin up a country that did not grow without these
masses of refuge pests?
Not one.
Author Notes
Migrants are nation builders. Check it out.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
The salvation of yesterday's tomorrow
creeps blisterlingly by,
torturingly
resurrecting stale hopes of today's past.
In silence we dream of golden canals
and fluttering kisses
of the white man's world,
left superficially untouched by loose laws and pendulous light.
Only history's kings remain incumbent.
Zestless promises of the white fence linger ceaselessly in the campus of hippos
unencumbered by the passive revolt of tomorrow's yesterday yet
lost in the oceans of affirmative action
and unsteady governmental regimes.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
The algorithm we live in
has become the dumb
nightmare we’ve been given,
a constant flow of concessions,
sad contrivances to survive this
cog in the machine existence.
The fight seems pointless
with only minor bouts of resistance.
If history teaches us anything
it is only labor movements,
those unions that win men
woman and children
any real economic equality.
There won’t be any eulogy
for this lie we call democracy,
while men of prestige and property
have been constantly fighting
against those who bring the lightning
of enlightening insights about this fight.
Shrinking borders while expanding profits,
supporting fascists regimes,
whilst demolishing and reorganizing
governments that try socializing
their own country’s resources.
Our local war mongers
want to rehabilitate
the image that people hate
twist and change the slang,
rework and spin everything
over and over again
as the kings of what is truly Orwellian.
They are so close to destroying
the environment and
every human edifice,
every ounce of progress
in the name of
capitalistic measurements of success.
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 2:00 PM UTC
I know your pain,
They broke my bones and divided me.
Where have you been?
It’s been 19 years of this ****** mess.
This is your mother asleep at the wheel, This is your brothers blood in the backseat
When everything you love only seems like something you feel.
Sacred sediment wrapped in white gold.
Shiny as god’s revolver but twice as cold.
What you hear is all Casablanca and she’s shivering cold.
They took your teeth, fragments of what they sold.
Take these seams from me.
Split them down these American IV dreams.
Take these seams from me.
Take these two lips, cut me clean and free.
She put me out like a cigarette.
Burned at both ends.
And my history to the anesthetist
and my body to surgeons
Take these words from me.
These cystic fibrosis regimes.
Take these words from me.
Light blue collar worker bees.
- MW
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:42 AM UTC
Raspings of the street’s lament.
Secretive,
commonplace,
hauntings.
Veiling the paths of floral regimes;
Assaulting itself upon a concrete temple.
Brief wisps of permanence
Floating past perception.
Coming to rest on ****** blossoms collected.
At the bottom of meadow-less time.
Naturalist bindings no longer
Only within hollow ties of
the wide- eyed, weaponized child.
Tearless wails for mystical voices.
Refracting
Piourettes of venus,
Dancing, upon a water- colour creator.
Gazing at home from the top of a sunbeam,
Failing to find mercy in a melting world.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC