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"rhetorician" poems
we have been deceived. corralled like tepid sheep, fattened beef waiting beyond the doors of the slaughterhouse. as pigs lick their lips, a daemon’s death dirge drifts listless across the Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy corroding rationality— this executive edict barring refugees. caught without a compass, a flotilla of ships weathering the elements. for forty days and forty nights, we’ve been lead two-by-two by elephants and donkeys. demagogues commandeered the lighthouse, directing our ark across scattered rocks. an armada of shattered splinters, remnants of water-logged vessels we’d hoped to sail to utopia. caught in the webs we wove, droves of drones spewing bombs across Aleppo. as spittle collects on spluttering orange lips, will we pause for but a moment? collect our thoughts. reflect. history is a shattered mirror and we’ve pricked our fingers trying to piece the image back together. there’s a hunger for blood refracting in our eyes. a misanthropy that smarts and stings. a recalcitrant population coerced by a television rhetorician’s clever devices, devised to separate and segregate during this crisis caused by our missiles. there is no moral arc to the universe. hope, Hedges wrote, is mania if it remains vapid and refuses to address the depravity of our physical reality. we’ve already lost. just ask the children barely clinging to life, covered in the debris of their former homes. all that’s left for us is to bash the fascists. smash every illusory border in our heads and hearts. burn down the walls they try to build around us. overturn the tables of the oligarchs, stuff Molotov cocktails down their bloated throats. open revolt is our only hope. we’ll build a sanctuary in this City Beautiful.
0
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
ark
we have been deceived. corralled like tepid sheep, fattened beef waiting beyond the doors of the slaughterhouse. as pigs lick their lips, a daemon’s death dirge drifts listless across the Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy corroding rationality— this executive edict barring refugees. caught without a compass, a flotilla of ships weathering the elements. for forty days and forty nights, we’ve been lead two-by-two by elephants and donkeys. demagogues commandeered the lighthouse, directing our ark across scattered rocks. an armada of shattered splinters, remnants of water-logged vessels we’d hoped to sail to utopia. caught in the webs we wove, droves of drones spewing bombs across Aleppo. as spittle collects on spluttering orange lips, will we pause for but a moment? collect our thoughts. reflect. history is a shattered mirror and we’ve pricked our fingers trying to piece the image back together. there’s a hunger for blood refracting in our eyes. a misanthropy that smarts and stings. a recalcitrant population coerced by a television rhetorician’s clever devices, devised to separate and segregate during this crisis caused by our missiles. there is no moral arc to the universe. hope, Hedges wrote, is mania if it remains vapid and refuses to address the depravity of our physical reality. we’ve already lost. just ask the children barely clinging to life, covered in the debris of their former homes. all that’s left for us is to bash the fascists. smash every illusory border in our heads and hearts. burn down the walls they try to build around us. overturn the tables of the oligarchs, stuff Molotov cocktails down their bloated throats. open revolt is our only hope. we’ll build a sanctuary in this City Beautiful.
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84
Efface the corridors of my mind, they no longer matter to my hands. My hands aren't in the reflection of my eyes, anymore. The ripplets of amalgamated rigmarole has left me disconnected from my own solace. (The truth of the matter is, I detest you all) Such a fiery passion filled with such repugnant result that only ensues regicide. Don't you see? You aren't the same as when I opened the door to Eden. Pusillanimous flowers froze under your cold dexterity and callous maneuvers as I tried, as an denizen of the air; in giving you fire. My animosity-indulged blood feel upon everything still. (Poor benevolent garden became the stage for fire and brimstone! Burn it all) The severance between rhetorician and denizen is the best that I can do to impart my desperation. God, what must I do to show the waters and the earths of my pain? Yet, I'm overlooked. (Yes, you are overlooked. Taken for granted). The black hiding under my nails is but testimony of how blood can transmutate to dirt. (You're too nice and stupid. I detest them all) Am I to believe that time along with my memories are my enemy? Then what of my sins and their justifications? What the hell must I do?! (Envy, Envy, Envy!) Why must I insist in speaking when those who must listen choose to turn their heads and ear like imbeciles to the slaughter? (Let them ******* die! why open your mouth, you idiot?) Scrupulous actions reflect my misery that can only explained through the pen. (Why must you waste your time? You were born alone, so die alone. Let the sky scream your name as the earth swallows your very existance and time effaces you from the memories of the inhabitants of the world. May all take a drink of the child's corrosive life and watch them atrophy and burn into nothingness)
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Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC
Words for the Mute, blind, and Silent: Killing time.
Efface the corridors of my mind, they no longer matter to my hands. My hands aren't in the reflection of my eyes, anymore. The ripplets of amalgamated rigmarole has left me disconnected from my own solace. (The truth of the matter is, I detest you all) Such a fiery passion filled with such repugnant result that only ensues regicide. Don't you see? You aren't the same as when I opened the door to Eden. Pusillanimous flowers froze under your cold dexterity and callous maneuvers as I tried, as an denizen of the air; in giving you fire. My animosity-indulged blood feel upon everything still. (Poor benevolent garden became the stage for fire and brimstone! Burn it all) The severance between rhetorician and denizen is the best that I can do to impart my desperation. God, what must I do to show the waters and the earths of my pain? Yet, I'm overlooked. (Yes, you are overlooked. Taken for granted). The black hiding under my nails is but testimony of how blood can transmutate to dirt. (You're too nice and stupid. I detest them all) Am I to believe that time along with my memories are my enemy? Then what of my sins and their justifications? What the hell must I do?! (Envy, Envy, Envy!) Why must I insist in speaking when those who must listen choose to turn their heads and ear like imbeciles to the slaughter? (Let them ******* die! why open your mouth, you idiot?) Scrupulous actions reflect my misery that can only explained through the pen. (Why must you waste your time? You were born alone, so die alone. Let the sky scream your name as the earth swallows your very existance and time effaces you from the memories of the inhabitants of the world. May all take a drink of the child's corrosive life and watch them atrophy and burn into nothingness)
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4
The root of all evil, set to victimize the people Keep us separate but equal, justification is lethal But the system isn’t see through, it’s affecting you and me too And now we must redo everything that made us feeble. Now we must all give in to this suppressive prison This world in which we live in has been filled with premonition Oppose our own volition, our morals and our cognition Listen to the vision of new accepted fiscal rhetorician You claim to be a Christian with no moral intuition But I don’t envision a Christian to think with his commission But I may be incorrect and I may need to reflect Nevertheless, it’s a greedy world what can you expect?
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Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
The Root of All Evil
Today I'd like you to raise your glass For I've someone I'd like to toast. Her hair curls like a corkscrew And I've always been envious. Exotic beauty shapes her eyes And ears and lips and nose, And I always wished I looked like her. It isn't merely her looks I covet, For she has a brain with intellect That rivals the best rhetorician From Plato to Hobbes to Sartre. Pick any topic and she'll begin to debate With practiced ease Until the other's hand is thrown up In plain defeat. But it isn't just her forensic skills That I wish to possess. There is yet more to this curl topped girl. Her heart is bigger than the world. She loves with compassion And sympathy Like I've never witnessed before. This is what I envy and covet the most, For where her heart of gold lies, Mirrored in me is just stone. She may be younger in years But she's always been a hero of mine. And I hope I will continue to be in awe As she shows the world Who we all can strive to become. To my sister. Sláinte
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Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
A Hero (#1)
i might be cruel at times, but one thing is for sure: truth always is, esp. when drinking. i find the concept of the "rhetorical" question slightly bewildering,   it's simple enough - whenever a "rhetorical" question is asked you rarely hear a counter -     the person asking the "rhetorical" question in all instances continues the "conversation" - by a rhetorical question i'm sure the implication states (as asked): that i invite you into the discussion - and, from what i've heard or seen, that's rarely the case!     why ask a rhetorical question when only the rhetorician asking the question is the only person answering it?   the smug punctuation mark and cliche that a "rhetorical" question has become is just that, a semicolon in a monologue...      how about asking a solipsistic question? you know, pierce the membrane, get someone out of their head, out of the pronoun hemisphere - and into: hey, john, what's your take on it? to ask a persuading question to later add that it is a "persuading" question, does not really invoke a persuasive counter answer - this entire "rhetorical" question is a pompous double-under-cut against dialectical fluidity - fuck's sake, people had to found debating societies to speak in godot's terms,   and as ever, a man in his 30s and a man in his 70s, and a park bench, is all it takes to be civil...     obviously the 30s man asking permission of the 70s man if he can continue drinking his beer and smoking a cigarette. rhetorical my ***    just say it plainly: it's not a question, it's a self-empowering answer -                 to continue the monologue - there is no such thing as a "rhetorical" question, simply because once the "question" is asked, it's swept under the carpet - because whenever a rhetorical "question" is asked, it's embedded in a quick-answer dynamic of the person making such a bogus request... no one has ever answered a "rhetorical" question, simply because the only person who can answer such a question, is the rhetorician himself... codswallop... that's what it is...      it's also called the barometer tactic of checking if you're insane, when you talk to yourself when you're alone...                               hazelnuts 'n' all... by the way... you want to stage a horror movie scene? have a drink, no, have lots of drinks, drink the whole **** bottle of wine... but! but...                      have a mirror in front of you - nothing shows as much truth as a drunk narcissus -                then again, if it was a puddle of ***** do you think he would have fallen in love with his visage?   like any mug of a man after five pints and six shots later: she was a 4 when i began, but now? she's a tenner, an alsatian stunner! oh right, they always say: it's not a rhetorical question... so?    it's not really a question at all,                                                              is it? it's a self-serving answer...     and that always seemed to bother me,    why ask a question you already know    the answer to? oh, right: to gain rhetorical momentum, and double-up on hushing the oppositional argument.
0
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
the rhetorical "question"
i might be cruel at times, but one thing is for sure: truth always is, esp. when drinking. i find the concept of the "rhetorical" question slightly bewildering,   it's simple enough - whenever a "rhetorical" question is asked you rarely hear a counter -     the person asking the "rhetorical" question in all instances continues the "conversation" - by a rhetorical question i'm sure the implication states (as asked): that i invite you into the discussion - and, from what i've heard or seen, that's rarely the case!     why ask a rhetorical question when only the rhetorician asking the question is the only person answering it?   the smug punctuation mark and cliche that a "rhetorical" question has become is just that, a semicolon in a monologue...      how about asking a solipsistic question? you know, pierce the membrane, get someone out of their head, out of the pronoun hemisphere - and into: hey, john, what's your take on it? to ask a persuading question to later add that it is a "persuading" question, does not really invoke a persuasive counter answer - this entire "rhetorical" question is a pompous double-under-cut against dialectical fluidity - fuck's sake, people had to found debating societies to speak in godot's terms,   and as ever, a man in his 30s and a man in his 70s, and a park bench, is all it takes to be civil...     obviously the 30s man asking permission of the 70s man if he can continue drinking his beer and smoking a cigarette. rhetorical my ***    just say it plainly: it's not a question, it's a self-empowering answer -                 to continue the monologue - there is no such thing as a "rhetorical" question, simply because once the "question" is asked, it's swept under the carpet - because whenever a rhetorical "question" is asked, it's embedded in a quick-answer dynamic of the person making such a bogus request... no one has ever answered a "rhetorical" question, simply because the only person who can answer such a question, is the rhetorician himself... codswallop... that's what it is...      it's also called the barometer tactic of checking if you're insane, when you talk to yourself when you're alone...                               hazelnuts 'n' all... by the way... you want to stage a horror movie scene? have a drink, no, have lots of drinks, drink the whole **** bottle of wine... but! but...                      have a mirror in front of you - nothing shows as much truth as a drunk narcissus -                then again, if it was a puddle of ***** do you think he would have fallen in love with his visage?   like any mug of a man after five pints and six shots later: she was a 4 when i began, but now? she's a tenner, an alsatian stunner! oh right, they always say: it's not a rhetorical question... so?    it's not really a question at all,                                                              is it? it's a self-serving answer...     and that always seemed to bother me,    why ask a question you already know    the answer to? oh, right: to gain rhetorical momentum, and double-up on hushing the oppositional argument.
Continue reading...
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