"sweatshop" poems
Faking Bad
In anticipation of my
Evaluation to be declared
Non Compos Mentos
I slept under a bridge
For three days
"Getting into character,"
But on the morning of
My intake interview
My hair fell perfectly,
I mean I looked like
A ******* rock star.
College girls on the bus
Were giving me their
Numbers and my skin,
Which I'd purposely sunburnt
And caked in the finest filth,
Glowed like an Australian
Chippendale dancer named Weegie
And even the female Assisstant D.A.
Who had busted me for vagrancy
Waved her ******* from
The third story building
Of the Courthouse.
No matter how much I
Tried to speak gibberish
Poetry and philosophical
Tracts spewed from my mouth.
Shuffling past the park
I beat eight
Grand Masters
At chess on move 1
Inadvertently I solved
The Phi Epsilom Theorem
By kicking stones
Into an algorythym.
When I arrived they didn't
Make me wait at all.
My caseworker giggled like
A schoolgirl while I told her
Each day was like an endless shift
In a Chinese fish- gutting
Sweatshop and every one of my fellow
Employees was motivationalist
Richard Simmons.
She ungirdled her enormous
**** and as they spilled
Like fishguts onto the desk
She began to howl
**** me, **** me, oh ****
Me right here in
Front of the open window
On State Street as everyone
Watches me ******* the strongest,
Healthiest, smartest, most popular,
Well-adjusted man in the world.
The rest of the examination was
Also a success.
But as I left the Mental HealthCenter
feeling marvelous
I accidentally bumped
An old woman with the door:
"Watch out you manic-depressive
Schizoid with Socially Avoidant
Features klutz."
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
the urban ecosystem
breeds the urban beast;
the two-legged feral brute
they board their clockwork motorcages
the young ones in predatious packs
the old, too weathered to care
animal autonomy
born from sweatshop routines
i imagine myself
as a metropolitan jane goodall
observing and assimilating
taking note of the cacophony of
hoots and and hollers
the city-born mating calls
the high-topped courtship dances
******* civility born from enslaved mindsets
a young, dark-skinned boy
let's rhyme flow freeformed
to the rhythm of a young girls dancing feet
stomps and claps excite the celebration
of abandoned social etiquette
and of my foreign presence
i resemble some exotic missing link
a mix of this, that and the other
my skin, a rare quilt
and this draws more attention
than a gold-dusted african queen
i place myself in the back
peering through the windows of this transit jungle
feeling my heart skip beats
boom...boom...shhhh...
i must've left my rhythm in my other heritage
because i can't catch the ancient flow
but my neck leads my head in bobs
my brain rattles with old soul memories
and i see these young folks on the train
held back by centuries of black struggle
but forever rejoicing in african pulse
forever embodying our ancestoral pride
and i think, how peculiar
on the outside looking in like a fishbowl
exiled from my own brown-skinned tribe
with my oppression fitted like a glove
my blackness a mere disguise
my blackness camouflage
my blackness
not quite
black
enough
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
Its crochet dumb ****
...
Though with mild guilt I must attempt to say, they are for a good friend,
A true one,
Who lets me treat her bad and calls me the best,
And I'd do so many things for,
To make up for all my messes
...
So I didn't buy seven dollar made by a broken sweatshop woman gloves,
I went out for yarn and made my own,
Cursing and spitting all the way,
Because hey, friendship is cool,
And I'll punch you if you look at her wrong.
The broken lady doesnt know enough about her to do that.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
My fingers bleed.
Back hurts.
Breathe fumes.
Never sleep.
I can't be a mother.
A child.
The breadwinner.
A human.
I make 13 cents.
Every hour.
Everyday.
For what?
I'man exploit.
A worker.
Mental.
Broken.
I've been hit,
Broken down,
Touched.
*****
They steal from me.
My hope.
Education.
My life.
I can't eat.
I can't sleep.
Get back to work.
Or get lost.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
look at my new j’s
a nike sweatshop worker
get’s paid 20 cents
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
Our America sulks in the gutters,
in the rotten alleyways of those living in the shadows.
As corporations, as greed, as self-obsession
damages our life web.
Our America loves the lonely dying child,
as suburban 'mother's **** the illegal pool boy.
Our America peers through holey, worn fabrics
as bare-fleshed youth slaughter for
sweatshop brands.
Our America becomes the past
becomes unknown
becomes a dead fad
as mysterious men lure the idea of a future.
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 4:58 AM UTC
I've been told my whole life that my life is easy.
I don't disagree. I have a house and a bed and free education, I'm not hungry.
But I've never thought that these are things to be held against me.
As far as I can tell, I've never done this before, I did not choose the way of life where the problems on this earth barely reach me. The questions left behind today, the ones we only now seem to have the power to fix, they're not my fault. If I could, I wouldn't have chose this kind of guilt-tripping, doom-impending "easy".
Things used to be better, so I'm told.
Family's used to stay together, so I'm told.
There were still things left to discover, so I'm told.
Men kept their word, women were more respectable, there were still things left to fight for.
As if we have left nothing to worry about anymore.
We have new age problems that started with your first engine.
Your first lightbulb.
Your first sweatshop.
Your first cellphone.
We are left fighting for balance between an undeniable human nature and nature itself, dwindling.
This isn't the age of sin, it's the age of freedom,
Where you feel the need to point out that too much of a good thing can single handedly destroy the world. You should know.
And we are not taking things easy, We are not lying down easy,
We are working.
Things are different now but we are working.
Trying to tell ourselves: Its not our fault
Danger, is just a household game for children.
Normal is no longer a house hold name.
Everything is so ******* up these days.
But we are working
to think everything through before we go ahead and do whatever might be a temporary fix to the mess that was made.
A mess you created, and no I'm not ungrateful 'cause you only ever did what you thought was best for us, to make life easier for us. You worked hard and lived hard and everything was hard, at least that's what you tell me. And God, I hope it's true.
Because that's the only way I can wrap my brain around the thought forgiving you.
I don't believe you never saw this coming. Unless,
Were you simply working too hard for a brighter future, a world for your children and their children and their children to live life easier to stop and wonder what might happen if?
This is not the dying world I would want to bring a baby into.
I wouldn't want my child's life to be that kind of condemning easy, lazy
I'd want it to be simple and stress free.
But never easy.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
Entrapment
Infringement
Produce it like they would in a sweatshop
Cut you knuckles open and rub them in salt
Stand up
and watch it take hold
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
I saw the best minds of my generation
Brutally isolated from those around them
Surrounded by series of boxes
Some meant to relay
Some meant to contain
All passively made to control
And past all of these boxes we can see
The place where the grass is greener
Where the trees are taller and stronger
Where the animals live
We call that place wilderness
Some say we used to call it home
Some others say that when we did
Life was nasty
Brutish
Short
Well
Many of these days I would prefer that to
Long
Meaningless
Alienated
But it really depends on ones perspective
See the problem with Civilization is that somewhere down the line someone has to take the full force of the trauma
Whether that’s indigenous people
Robbed of their land
Forced to work in Rare Earth Mineral mines
Or sweatshop factories in foreign countries
Or Facebook content moderators in Arizona
Forced to be subjected to violent murders and graphic ***********
Their bathroom breaks are monitored
They are ordered to stop praying if it takes too long
All so your racist uncle can share news articles from PatriotPress.com
And people who haven’t interacted with you in years can wish you a happy birthday
This is the price we pay for our convenience
This is the passive acceptance that our comfort is more valuable than their lives
I heard that the first megamachine was made with human parts
Now we witness that machine cannibalize itself
What is the alternative to this concrete techno-Hell?
I hope that one day we cast off this Leviathan whose tentacles wrap around our necks
To live a life of lower standards but higher meanings and ambitions
To live simply
With nature and not at its expense
It’s not a past to return to
But a future we fight for
Where the grass will be greener
But only because
We let it grow
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 8:32 AM UTC
Went to film school, want to be a filmmaker still
My dream unfulfilled, but still unfolding
I look at what used to inspire me: magazine articles about
the great directors. always male. even today. I used to want
to be the female version. Not anymore
The New Yorker has a piece on one
Describes the process: a demanding scene where
Julia Roberts walks down a street and then gives a LOOK
This is not drama. drama is conflict. the new yorker doesn't know this
describes the making of "art" as the shot is repeated with different LOOKS
It's all taken so seriously: a large photo of the ARTIST on the facing page
He has four o-clock shadow times a few days. this is the look of a filmmaker
you will see it in the second half of the semester at any film school
and he looks worried, intense, confused...gassy? artists are never happy
is life a pretty picture? the artist knows this and cannot, will not smile
Later, "the Brille Building," in New York. wow. a building with a name no less
a building where many films are edited, have been edited over the years.
a sweatshop for editors of picture and sound, and a place for the director
to continue, now out of the shadow of the STAR
He's using a lot of profanity now. Just because he's an old white geek don't think
for a minute he ain't kool, he ain't street.
Actually, go ahead and keep thinking that, because you're right
Amazingly enough, he, from his heights of artistry, is slumming it with take-out
Oh, the dedication. Oh, the fear of ever leaving the building and being reminded
there is a whole world outside that doesn't care about you
His brother is the editor (no, don't say there is nepotism in this business, it's your imagination)
They review the shots of THE LOOK
There are many takes and now, this director who adapted someone else's novel
to the screen now claims, he wrote it. Really. It is all his.
Yes I still love making films but I've never loved the biz
And as I get older, the more I think that real artists don't get written up
in the New Yorker with such verve because they'd think it was just too silly
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
Once upon a time in a land like ours
A disarmed people under axes of powers
Beyond their reach, sole promised extent of a vote
Through haze made of gun smoke,
Muzzle flash fireworks
New meaning to a new hurt
A new God for a new Church.
Ring in the new year; let the bomb drop before the
Brow of the Lao in a sweatshop,
Blue parade of pockets and stomachs made full
An army of sheep by an army of bulls.
Jul 10, 2011
Jul 10, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
i.
eating chocolate-chip fudge cake
heart racing pounding
surrounded with flesh
suffocated, constricted, fighting,
living
for guilty pleasures yearning
digestive juices to action
there is purpose, conviction
the food eaten, none
calories wasted heat not raised
such first world problems, is control
ii.
guilty pleasures
a woman walks up to you
her body for sale
she asks for a chance
to take your money
you quoth bill, she accepts
judgment, opinion, cravings,
the touch sweat confuses for
not loving back
you’re still lost
not having a girlfriend anyway
curb, not succumb to such drive
you’re not forgiven the lonelyness
copying the rest of us and marketing
iii.
relative definitions for everything
no one agrees disagrees
trikha tomia stalemate
money, living, dignity,
your sweatshop is not mine
the immigrants need new life
in the sweat shop they work
for pre-school
there is dignity no dignity yes
but also a body for sale
or a fat man eating his cake
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
I went to a sanctuary today:
The remnants of a dammed river
Called Tanyard Creek.
Life was vibrant and flourishing,
Glowing with green and streaming sun,
Cascading falls and clear pools.
I even befriended a turtle;
It was all very lovely, I assure you.
Yet, this used to be a river
Before Man built that dam,
And it must have flowed for miles --
****** and untarnished --
Before Man built that dam.
I'm reminded once I reach the other end
Where it flows under an overpass
That this all is simply allowed to exist:
Someone owns this.
Someone can trample all of this.
This fledgling remain of something ancient.
This is the fate of the entire world:
It all has a price tag.
It can all become a parking lot,
An oilfield,
A sweatshop,
A mall,
And if this system goes unchecked:
This paradigm of infinite consumption.
Then that is where we will one day be,
With backyards that need to be genetically-engineered to survive.
Where every animal is exotic and rare.
Where New York is underwater.
While we lie in gas-heated homes,
Huddled away from the decaying world,
As we chase away the fear
That it is far too late,
That these wounds are fatal,
And that we let our greed and indifference
Ruin the world that gave birth to us.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
Let us find again the beauty in simple things
not just in designer labels and diamond rings
for the worth of what we crave
should not be drawn from sweatshop slave
Let us find again the beauty in simple things
Let us see things once again just like a child
In the days when we'd go out and explore the wild
Building tree forts in the woods
cops and robbers, robin hoods
Let us see things once again just like a child
Let our innocence and trusting be our strength
not something that gets drummed out of us at length
lets not live our lives in fear
of dangers far away from here
Let our innocence and trusting be our strength
Let us open up our hearts without reserve
and let someone in without trying to conserve
let us love just once again
like we'd never know pain
Let us open up our hearts without reserve
Let us die without one outstanding wish
live our lives with nets always full of fish
lives with bounty all around
all friends and loved ones have we found
Let us die without one outstanding wish
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 3:12 PM UTC
Get loud for Christ's sake
shake the walls
vibrate
black out red
we killed twelve Pakistani innocents with unmanned drones
and this silence is getting under my skin
there's a disturbing lack of politicians hanging from flagpoles across the country
no I didn't hear the new Q94 top tracks
and say yoloswag one more time,
I dare you,
you can find your teeth in the back of your throat
burn polo and nike to the ground
turn the CEO's over to the sweatshop workers
this quiet will **** us
but until it does
I'm off hunting
so don't find yourself on the wrong side of my iron sights
thin the herd until we near extinction
righteous fire is cleansing
and we will rebuild from the mountain of corrupted ashes
impotent rage is a trait of the youth
and I'm young enough to pop
if these airwaves stay dead for much longer
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
What's uut man?
My snake tipped legs and iceberg froze fade languish in the shade. Tell a mother how her bush should bloom, Gathered all the rose peddles and released them to the desert air, when I rise Pillsbury dew drops tip tap clatter back. I already know what love is. Hearts tide to a string. You can call me Duncan. They call me South of no North. My gift of gab was extrapolated from Teddy Ruxpin's jugular and drug through a Chinese sweatshop. I hung my cords out on the line. They hardened into a sharp blade used for doe hunting. Try ice skating uphill while not breaking a sweat. Pull the plug from the speaker steal the mic and jet. Will mount Olympus faction my fold? Nevermore, well maybe once but I'm so straight and narrow their knees are like maze portals to me. Take a swig from the medication station. Don't stay to long or you may like what you have become too me. No worries; Uutt, oh it's magic.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
THE LADY OF ALOT
Estatic when she's shopping,
The boughten things she's got;
Right proud of all her purty stuff,
She's The Lady Of Alot.
Alot of costly Chinese stuff
Imported hear by Walmart stores.
She useta shop at I Magnums but
She don't like them ones no more.
Irregardless, she believes she
Ain't not no ordnary ****
If she'd of got haffa chance
She'd of voted twice for Trump
And the strait Republican ticket
So The Donald can fix are country
Like he exhaled in his own companies,
Making lots of good clean money.
In her sweatshop-made clothing
She shouts allowed she can't wate
For the Grand Old Party and Trump
To agin make Murrkuh grate!
She feel she's happy in her ivory tower
With all the treasures she has got.
She sees nothing wrong with this country
The dense, nearsighted, Lady Of Alot.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
Break my fingers and let them hang off the bone
as this world is turning I am the one turning it.
I am the one hammering the stars and igniting the dirt
giving life to the lifeless, breathing air into those lungs.
Work is all I have to give
life is just a conduit
a sweatshop.
Do not be angry at this
for it is better to be the hammer
than it is
to be the star.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
As migrant workers in dire need of buttering their bread
To Libya, the hardest way, some Ethiopians opted to head
They spent a portion of their life in a sweatshop
Clinging afloat a better-tomorrow hope.
Tragically, they were intercepted by ISIS members with
A brain, inured, petrified and dead
After blood-thirsty, heinous, ill-motivated and bad shaped.
ISIS demons, who lavish atavism, ironically the faithful behead
With faith-based hatred. Putting on a mask, they
Bullied 30 cross-necklace-bearing Ethiopians to a desert shore,
Showcasing the brutality they adore —the way a cat
Plays with an inescapably captured rat-
Rattling a sabre at the kneeling down victim's back
Making sure their brutality to others proves stark
Like a Hollywood movie they ordered 'attack! '
Oblivious
'Even slaying a sheep or a hen
Must be handled in a way that doesn't inflict a pain! '
The Prophet's word ISIS members misconstrued
"The Muslim Faith owes Ethiopian Orthodox a gratitude!
So Never attack a peaceful Ethiopian! "
What do they care, disciples of satan,
When an Ethiopian Muslim challenged them
"Where is your logic or reason? "
They shot him, taking his act as a treason.
It is martyr's soul that goes to heaven
While the unrepentant terrorists' souls
Are destined for hell's oven!
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
A meaningless life
Filled with nothing
"Did I get something to eat"
She asks.
Yes, I can see the food
You are the most ignorant, obnoxious person
I have ever met
People like you
Should be sent to India
To work 13 hours
In a sweatshop
Just to make enough money
To survive
Your luxury car impounded
People like you
Get Alzheimers
Because you never use
Your mind
You are one of the laziest
Most obnoxious people
I have ever met
You don't live
But exist
Like a picture on the wall
And I hate to be harsh
But it's true
You are an incredibly stupid
And lazy individual
I won't be here
For the holidays
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Ante added up
in a slipshod
sweatshop for
Permission to hanker
on some buttermilk
slopwork with
A frump finery of sorts
laundered nicely:
a down gown
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Hey there, Blue Apron,
We need to talk.
Come into my office.
Have a seat, big shot.
No no no, this time it isn’t
About all the pots.
Although those are an issue.
For sure. There’s just a lot.
Today I’d like to chat with you
About your clock.
Do you own one? Have you seen one?
You’ve heard a “tick tock?”
That’s confusing because you say here
The Glazed Chicken with Apricot
Should take 25 minutes.
But I can assure you, it does not.
I spent half an hour
Just giving the shallots a chop.
Not to mention mincing ginger
And making the chicken stock.
Maybe if I had a team of sous chefs
Or ran a kitchen sweatshop,
I’d get this **** done,
In 25 minutes tops.
So, while it pains me, Blue Apron,
I’ve given it some thought,
And I have to let you go.
This really needs to stop.
Because I simply have no more patience,
For this Glazed Chicken with Apricot.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
Lost in gutter talk,
The history books
Suggest it was his two brothers
Who took him to the fair
At Longford Park
Boasting of dead fireflies
Instead of fish in little bags,
And follicles of lights
In the ghost house
Almost invisible from
The roller coasters
Descending from the sky
Like space rockets
Replacing sledges.
Crossing the meadows
Blanked in snow
With echoing laughter
The reports stated
Then missing *****
At coconuts stall
Then footballs
Before proclaiming
It was fixed
And gave up wandering
Over to the roller coaster
Leaving Billy stood there
Protesting it wasn’t
******* cheap gobsuckers
Hiding his tears
Turning a perfect illustration
Into a pastoral scene
Of fireworks
Kissing the moon
Tying themselves up
In his mouth
As a attendant said
‘Six shots for two quid, son’
Accompanying over each shot
‘Lower, lower, lower’
Crossing shots over the tins
Like pennies in keyholes
Wrestling with uneven prayers
Chiselling his nerves
Over sweatshop erected fingertips
‘Lower, lower, lower’
Knifing through
His childhood
One shot after
The other
With each target
He shot through.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
When I turned the key on the house
I anticipated my return.
A protracted absence ensues.
The air behind is trapped, absorbed my everything.
Heavy and lush as the garden.
Feet-weary carpets rebound.
Plants watered, counters subdued.
Traps baited in favorite niches.
Spiders already weaving like a sweatshop.
The kettle will sing again.
My legs will be elevated.
Home again from thousands of miles,
Planning my next getaway.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC