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SassyJ Apr 2016
Booming Rhetorics  (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
==Booming Rhetorics ==
by
Checkered Darks
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Copy the link below to your browser)
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/boomingrhetorics



Human nature itself is a smash of contractual responsibility. A splash of rights afloat as we sink in our psychological rooted moral panics. All I see is a cascading titanic of ventures our mislaid adventures one after another. The criss cross of chains, we bonded in tax measures, reserve treasures...... It's not my leisure I beg you don't make your pleasure.

I sink in pressure, resolving Karl Mark ideology of conflicted power. Is it our born nature or nurture to live in a world of social polarisation. A pole to pole, a tug of war. Each owning and holding a rope.Is it our task to cage in boxes, fencing notions of inequalities within our society. Is it our right this notion Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.

Help me out as as I wade in the swampy lowland. Treading through and through, head afloat, the submerging walk me to the shores..... Help me find my way through this dark tunnel. Help me see the light, let the sun ray penetrate my blight.

In our dichotomy of democracy we have made it right. A rolling ball of ........
1. Stock them high sell them cheap is the order of the day.
2. Social warehousing of merging demand and supply chain.
3. A disintegration of socialist entrepreneurship.
4. Re-distribution of Export Production Zones in marginalised countries.
5. A surge of capitalism on this patch we call the universe.
6.Conortions of monopoly colluding sustainability.

I pass this ball to you. As the industrial revolution fades and debates of "STEEL" revolves.

My Speech is a mere consideration, our contradiction. The contractual complications that we have grounded and granted ourselves as humanity. My voice is an exchange, my gift, a cloud of thoughts, an arousing hope our haunting costs.
ryn Oct 2014
Are we fated to dance to the same tune alone in our separate universes?
Is it true that we must silently keep to our preordained curses?

Are we destined to swoon at the beauty of the moon at differing time slots?
Why were we given invisible ink to connect our lives' dots?

Must it be that our lives revolve around the whims of the sun?
Isn't it ludicrous that we won't see the intricate webs we've spun?

Was it the plan that we exist only in our minds and hearts?
Why do we have to tolerate starting when the other's ending and end at the other's starts?

Has it been written that we can only afford to infinitely chase each others heartbeats?
Was it foretold that we're trapped in a singular notion that never really fits?

Is the game set as such that we can never emerge as winners?
How is it that the ocean was made out of our tears that flowed from rivers?

Why is it that with our entirety we believe but do not know?
What's the reason for the path made clear but we're too afraid to go?

What does it entail to possess the very least but yet you covet it the most?
How do you pride yourself in something but not allowed to boast?

Why do we frantically scramble to piece together jagged shards?
Can't we just play this blasted deck of lousy cards?

Is it destiny or cruelty to have found then lost?
Why does it seem absurd that we have all its takes but can't afford the cost?

Is it the thoughts that **** or the emotions that debilitate?
Is it the challenges we take on or the curveballs we anticipate?

Why bother when sheer folly is all it seems to be?
Why tarry when the heart is free and the mind is ready?

Is it ridiculous to have found myself still very bothered?
Is it wrong to question fate that had always bound us tethered?

Why is the good always bad and the bad becomes worse?
Is it true that the harder we fight, the deeper we immerse?

Has life turned to be but sad little rhetorics?
Are we but performers on stages coerced into theatrics?

Is it time for me to surface this one-man submarine?
Will it be so that if I do, my journey would then begin...?
A host of rhetorical questions from my older writes...

"Surface this one-man submarine"  isn't mine... It's Brandon Boyd's.
Taken off Incubus' " Love Hurts"
Mary McCray Apr 2013
An unrhymed Pindaric

“Either be wholly slaves or wholly free.”
-- John Dryden

I. Strophe**

Free verse, you are my original verse, my birth voice,
music of my inheritance, placenta full
of breath and heartbeats, my riotous word maps
shred of the rules of the patriarchy, the white
old world. Self reliance is All American, I say;
I say what I mean like daggers on blood stains, scientific
particularity, embellished with the subversive, diabolical
enjambment, a soothsayer and a liar, a sister assumed
in the interruption, a sister resolved
in the final line.

II. Antistrophe

But you can spin out in an open lot.
Who’s to say a sister can’t mark out her own
shape—skinny, fat, fit to be *******?
Who’s to say she can’t be obscure, obtuse, coquettish
with a song and dance or with raw, pickled reason?
There’s more to ****** than some two-faced
enjambs. There’s the rhetorics of ******* and assuming
you invented the knife. Can we just cut the game
of its gangrene?  Smelly history, politics,
and idolatry?

III. The Stand

I take back the music; I will sing badly in my parlor,
set a line with a waltz or a moon dance.
I refuse to relinquish my words to the tyranny of English.
I refuse to relinquish my words to the tyranny of me.
I take back all shapes (if they flatter me) and mathematics.
I take back the agenda nailed to the wall,
refusing to relinquish my self to the tired old generals
of either side. I take back the third waves of the entire sea
and shitbox and I take back the almighty decision
of which witch is which.
Trying the Pindaric Ode today but with some love shown to my freestyle.
Jazzelle Monae Jun 2014
Given the option
to be with you
was rhetorical;
As inquisitive as I am,
my curiosity replenished
with every
kiss
© 2014 by Jazzelle Monae. All rights reserved.
Anil Prasad Aug 2015
Days go with you and bid goodbye
Hours slide down and die
And drape down
The innocence of the Noun!

With the experience of Adverbs
Of place, time and frequency, the Verbs
Replace the endearing use of Nouns
(Slowly moving from lisping sounds )
To the stable use of personal Pronouns!

Individuality stands alone keeping the Subject alone
Sometimes with a defiant adolescent tone
Distractions, doubts in the use of Determiners
A shaky ground for the beginners!

Disagreement with the Subject-Verb agreement begins
Early during this period and lurks within, and at times springs
With the Nouns like mathematics, rhetorics and news
Without any tension to meddle in don’ts and dos!

What I wish to say in a few sentences
Is not enough about life’s infinite time and tenses!
To deconstruct the grammar of growing up is not enough
As adolescence is a diamond in the rough;

It is a living discourse; both simple and tough
Ironical, unpredictable, surprising, puzzling stuff
Needs patience, pardon, perseverance and fun
To handle its substance for every daughter and son!
Yenson Sep 2018
The Acolytes come marching in and out and in, out again
Minds befuddles, rationalities amissing, fully indoctrinated
Pathetic Dogs of Attrition dressed all in white, all in pain
Compulsive obsessives, neurotics primed and oxygenated
Scrappers at the bottom of the barrel wants unlawful gain
By hook or crook is their recourse, to that they are mandated

From rhetorics long gone and ideologies forged in days of rain
Our intrepid Confused and Acolytes are soundly medicated
Just march to left, left, left, left and we will ease all your pain
Recognize that the enemies are those that think and are educated
They all claim domain at the top, with kudos, status and fame
While you languish in closed barrels, your poor lives truncated

Those Bosses are all there because they are all Masonic inclined
Doctors, lawyers and Professionals paid cash for Degrees granted
They did no work or study, rich Daddies just paid so they claim
All those Entrepreneurs are Robbers who bankraid unarrested
Because the Police are all masonic and help/share in all the gain
The Royals are  Top Mafiosas, with International links atested

So Dumb Acolytes Know the truths and fall with the wise in line
We must regain Power and march left, left so we're not left in vain
The republic shall live because it's 21 Century and we wake in time
We take all from the Secret Society and cut off all our iron chains
Begin by taunting, tormenting and harassing that ****** Wayne
The ****** Prince is the African Mafia Chief and Exploiter kingpin

Sing with me everybody
Viva la Revolution, viva la Revolution
We are clever, all in our White uniforms
We march to the left left left with our two left feet
We know our brains have left us but we go left left
Viva la Revolution, Viva la Revolution, Viva la Jinbba.
Hey! jinbba, jinbaba, hey! jinbba jinbaba, hey! jinbba jinbba
Sing.........
Satire, humour, Pity

"she runs the department through a group of acolytes"
synonyms: assistant, helper, attendant, retainer, servant, minion, underling, lackey, henchman;
SassyJ Aug 2018
Whimsical roses and uttered rhetorics
spare the disgrace of the grieved afflictions
pebbled roads of restraints and constraints
laughter and compressed redundancy
the tone changes and emptiness nest
the tongue races and eventuality sets
such a season of unknown unrest
undresses one to a bare *****
where the ****** peaks, unsure of the leak
offended in the reign of unnamed seeds
with evocative sprouts that germinate
to the unlocked mysteries of happenstance
such a season of bearable tests
caress one to a bare bottom
where even shame never turn or press
oppressed in the fields of unmarked borders
with seductive crowns that culminates
to the unlocked mysteries of happenstance
Redshift Apr 2013
i remember telling a girl
(maybe
asking her)
"what is there
besides
love?"
i guess there's
mockery
Do you ever feel guilty?
for the scars you left?
for the missing pieces of me
I gave to complete you?
pieces that never quite fit
never quite enough
does it keep you up at night?
do your nightmares wear my face?
can you still hear me
screaming
does it echo in your head like a storm?
does it break your heart,
knowing you broke mine?
do you ever cry for the days you stole from me?
days, months, years
too much time spent fixing a ghost
demon, soul eater, blood drinker
if you saw the bruises you left on my trust
like ink stains, messy and spreading
every lie and every ******* harsh word
and yet you refused to hear me
screaming
I died for you once, burnt like a forest
now growing back without you

may you never find shade underneath me
or feel the soft soil brace your step
may you dream about the shrieking wind
and I'll no longer be dreaming
of you
decompoetry Oct 2010
Pencil shavings spilled in the drawer,
layering over my cerebrum cortex,
like fallout that fell out from my sleeve,
shaken down with me to the ground,
but bound never to leave.

Despite all this,
the pencil tip still snaps
whenever it feels my pain,
regardless if it’s invented or installed.

A thousand pencils broken in my grasp,
yet no words ever seem to last;
rhetorical questions and questionable rhetorics
jabbing my eye as if I’ve already worn it,
but the fabric feels more new to me
than the first day I bought it,

and I can’t remember
what I did with the receipt;
think I might’ve lost it in the gutter
with the other organisms
that were no better;

but maybe, if you would let it,
I could try my luck with some store credit.
Ugo Victor Oct 2016
I know I'm not the only one
That these questions keep
Up at night
Like why do babies cry the same
Do fools fall in love or
Does love make a fool
Which arm rest is really mine at the cinema
and if man evolved from monkeys
How come we still have monkeys
and what about my daydreams at night
Would a picture of a thousands words
be worth so much?
I really can't sleep much do I?
Mercy Aug 2020
The waves welling
Up my throat
My stomach full with doubt
Constipating despair
Irritated by questions
As my brain can't comply
My reasoning sick
And the rhetorics
Driving me crazy on what
Is the real deal here.

Who am I?
Why me?
Why all the struggle?
Then purpose drops
But the questions still
Remains unanswered
Bewildered at how people
Push through suchlike
Waves
And why?

You know yesterday
I actually found a card
He once sent me
Then reading I discovered,
He saw that coming
Us breaking up
"We may not be making each other aware of our feelings often, but the love we share, is beyond the day to day expressing...
Its a feeling that our hearts have taken for granted forever."

Am not sure what I
Feel anymore
Should it be joy
That he hoped that even though now
We might part ways
That later we will reunite
Or he saw that even though
Our love was true
It was forbidden and
The only way out to
Protect both our hearts
Was to break the bond and hurt
To nurse it all our lives.

Its hard to keep breaking
Through when all I can do
Is try keep up!!!
This breakup sure is contradicting to everything I believe in.
Adrija Ghosh Jul 2016
i do, even when I don't
believe, I mean
hope, secretly
wish on broken fairy lights
broken wishes find nothing better to hold onto
how many man does it take to fix a light bulb?
none, I whisper
i have not known enough men in my life, just voices of authority and temporary solace
who hide under the mask of being men
what does it mean, to be men, women, birds, martyrs, dying honey bees in a terrible monsoon
within drenched realities of potholes and puddles
where my childhood still jumps and scrapes it's knees
i never knew what it felt to have butterflies erupt in my stomach
and feel their flutter in my laughter, they scare me, all winged insects do
i have been mocked before,
my fear of insects misunderstood,
but i'm not scared of wings
or to trip into a world with no meaning,
not that our existence holds any either way
i am not scared, honestly, of the rhetorics of daily routines and internalized desires
to have warm soup when my body burns with fever
fevers are good,
fevers make me burn and no one else holds the match sticks
and I know that the fireworks that erupt as headaches as my fever worsens are here to stay but only temporarily,
just like the fireworks in my heart that certain people set free
i am scared of winged insects,
and of people who set fireworks instead of butterflies in my skin and bones,
but I am not scared of wings.
I wrote this for a friend who hates butterflies.
Antiphon Benedictus II / Sybilla Herophile

The wide influence of history was automated in rituals; it would indicate a bibliographical time rather than secular. The antiphons will take us through the hallelujah of eternal times and along the path of the Spring of Castalia. In singularity will be Delphic Herófila, primordial of Delphi prophesying Trojan conflicts. By reinterpreting her priesthood, she leads us to the Templar Adyton, which can be reinterpreted in a Christian way in the classical antiquity of this antiphon. Being able to be captive, she looked serious and wise, visionary and with customary strange gestures, for an abnormal state of Young Sybilla woman who was later supplanted by older fortune tellers.

The Antiphon Benedictus says: “Herophila you were plagiarized and ridiculed by a heterodoxy that knows rituals and sacred cares, the Pneuma that emerged from the cracks upset your incongruities, which settled on the millennial pedestal in Macedonian territorial geographies, uniting with Alexander the Great, recirculating in Sibylline centers and dividing the doors of Sober Hell, towards epiphanies of the cult of light, and of the sacred pairs of wisdom.

The discussion took place in front of those who surrounded the perimeter of the Antiphon; there was Vernarth and Saint John the Theologian. For decades the twilights have not made the red blood cells of the Cassotis iridescent, which defied a hydrographic competition, for the purpose of desembalming the bodies of the Falangists that emerged from the Temenos of Patmos; secular space for the auditoriums of the antiphon. With ornamental fictitious oracles envisioning the inadvisable opening of opposing eyes towards a Mysta or Mystírio Eleusino, so that finally, given the toxicity of Mercury's sulfide, they would emancipate themselves by making objections to the hypothesis of ruddy post-mortem symbols, which the braves of Tel Gomel, when appearing outside the extinct topic, so that the Benedictus songs would button their navels, which was the only thing that united them to the Sybillas who came from the expropriated ethics, and from the Cinnabar outpatient clinics for long periods providing life in the quantum of Mercurial Ambrosia. Being this preferably housed in the skulls of the V (Fifth courtyard of Helleniká, but this time with eschatology of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi). Eurydice is associated with an exhumation in front of the alerted and emitted effluvia of the Herophile after the Zygastron, which shone from a canvas and that Borker preserved from the Laurel Woods, in a sycalyptic horizon of the equinoctial Aftó of the Kaitelka Cetacean, which nitrated oxides from the eastern vertical, on its back, spauto shredding with purple carbonates towards the Rubicunda del Tinctorium, and from the rhizome that hydrated the enervated and dispersed drops that remained from the convulsion of the Metelmi wind, and shaking the fin that came from this Balaenidae specimen Mysticete, in casuistry of a whale with Down syndrome, but with prodigious psychic powers.

The Cinnabar wandered through the clothes of Tel Gomel's disembalmed ones, who colored themselves with sulfur mercury and revived from the oracles of Herófila, who woke up early with Eurydice validated by her Orphic impetus like no one else. The specific parts were tints of vital signs and epidermis shoots that trembled through the epiphyses of the tibiae that decanted arthritic through the femurs, and that rose with timid muscular masses, until they reached the instep where the celestial holes of Vernarth appeared, that he struck each one of his faithful with his Xifos sword, to bleed a bronze chalice for their reduced movements, stacked on crossed legs with dejected cheekbones that fell on their feet.

Reddish spots on his jaws and on his forearm they were transposed with red salvific footprints of Eurydice that he brought from Charon, but that expressly limited them in the posterior scapula that came arriving from the fifth courtyard of Messolonghi completely stiff in black. The muscular insertion was made of pale ocher, and the Cinnabar was elemented to verticalize the involuntary bodies of the earthquake, before the controversy of the makeup of their resurrection, after an outfit that they had never used before, pigmented by an antiseptic oracle of Herófila, which already insisted to compensate with war shrouds the size of the Benedictus that self-shod the iron suns, and that buried fangs of light and life in their facials, moving in the nervous of the trigeminal towards the ethmoid, causing rales of stimuli feminoids, for the enthronement of the women present in the only atrium of the Mandragoron. Thus they remained in multi-partial stages of the psalm that revived them, to go to meet the Hegemon Alexander the Great, who emerged synchronously from Larnax, from an eruption that uttered the greatest insults of political clarity, in the fierce agonies of his perforated lung. Parasites were sprinkled like empathic germs of Hellenism, conferring Masken resurrection, beyond the curtain or canopy that separated them in Persepolis..., returning from the Indus, for the funeral that would pass through the departure of Hephaestus. Rigor-mortis buried a soul overheating in pulmonary contusion, after a feverish respite, and re sulphating in the rhetorics of Plato and Aristotle.

The Sybillas no longer menstruated on the tripod, the Pythoness in their prehistoric eagerness was conceived twice cyclical, which were reconverted into prehistoric female raptures that confirmed the exo-red blood cells of the menstrual torment, to become reconverted Christian goddesses who were doubly buried in one past joined to the other, and that they were about to precede the next past-present, on an oak that supported them, clinging to them to bear the pain that never existed.
Sybilla Herophile
Zani May 2018
Long time not sharing
The hussle of life glaring
Outshining my needs
Breeding boredom until
My eyes sore
Forget to see the Magic
Worse yet
My hands forget to share
The specks of joy
Staring at me in the face
Replaced by the sorrow vision
Displaced by the daily mission
Brushing my dreams aside
Gliding its way to the top priority
Where all else comes first
But my poetry
Has been asleep awhile
I try to express but the words
Are lost in this busy depression
Where I do not have time to feel
End of day reeling questions in mind
Like why and who am I again?
And again
And again
Yet I refrain from rhetorics
For the answers I find come out in rage
Page after page I could tear and burn
From all the frustration I feel as I work
But today
I will tear through the darkness
Harness it so I can love regardless
Of the pain in living as human
The truth is that I carry love
For all of you who share this truth and
I want you to know what it means
To me
When I gaze upon your soliloquies
They save me
Long time not caring it seems
So I will set the record straight:
Thank you for sharing and reading
My poetry mates
Zani will love you always
Not enough hours in the day, week, month or year. Hear me when I tell you how dear you are to me! Blessings to you poets ❤
Born Mar 2019
Poet aka lower low

Ugh! Here he comes
I should have known that a poem like you
Would wild so much speculations
Drawing big crowds and
Enticing them to decipher your rhetorics

Now I remember
You said it was for "philosophical thinkers"
Such a big word for a mere poem like you
Who for some reason
likes to rule out its readers as nothing but insolent idiots

I thought you traded complexity for gratification
Isn't that your end game afteral
Cause comprehensive analysis of your ideology
Wouldn't delve out any logical meaning
Or let's go a step further and call it a doctrine
A cup of tea for your ego


Poem

Listen you muggot , idiot
or whatever you self identify yourself as
I've never felt the need to dumb down my
Unfathomable intelligence to your
Lower low level
but the universe wouldn't have it any other way


I can see the poverty of your lexicon
written  to please your fellow peasants
Look at me, am the multiplicity of a thousand  beings
a thirst that can never be quenched

How dare you grace yourself
With your redundancy
Your quite naive lower low

Here is an imagery for you

I'm smoking Mayan sicars
Most expensive cigars you've never heard of
Cause your too busy being a mediocre

Just for clarification
I wouldn't want to be stopped to your level
People would start talking
Creating assumptions and damaging my reputation
Imagine a poem like me being written by a poet like you
Jeez! I'd rather die
A conversation between a poet and a poem
Benjamin Dollar Oct 2019
There is veracity in our vernacular,
Rhythm in our rhetorics,
This power that I speak of,
Lies only with the poets.
For all of you lovely people, the world needs more of you!
nvinn fonia Oct 2020
English is fcking compromised its no longer safe  better to speakk my own marcha dialect.
man **** english waas a beautiful language
Michael Marchese Nov 2019
Absorption
Of all sorts of
Warped information
So porously permeates
My rumination
An inundation
Of befuddling
Puddles
Besotted my brain
With each new innovation
I can not explain
Outpacing the rate
I can’t trace
A trajectory
Can’t calibrate
To this Morse Code
Perplexity
Vexing me
Try as I might
To decipher
The messages
Only in writing
The past’s
Lasting vestiges
Remnants of presaging
Matters in tatters
All scattered
About me
As mad as a hatter
Still poring over
An outpouring of tea
Kettles meddling,
Drug-peddling
Me more lunacy
With each sip
I trip, slipping
Down rabbit hole mystery
Sifting through time-shifting
Pages of history
Back to antiquity’s
Atavistic
And nuncupative
Socrates
Intellects
Recollect
Fragments of memory
Long-lost
In talking point’s
Pin-pointed provenance
Anecdotal,
The sum-total
Predominance
Of petit bourgeoisie
Partisan politics
Paltry polemics
And charlatan
Rhetorics,
Heretics
****** polygamist
Lamb’s
Transcendantalists
Warring with
Transgender bans’
Clans of militants’
Plans for the future
Contingent on which
Faction patches
Its lack of technology
Glitch
And yet still am I itching
To scratch at the surface
Of how it all started
With what is my purpose?
Except to reflect on it all
And persist
In existence amidst
Super-humanist
Bliss

— The End —