Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ConnectHook Sep 2015
[Infernal Dialectic of Ongoing Struggle]

Spoke Mao Zedong to Kim Jong Ill:
We languish here in deep red hell—
Let us confer and analyze
What factors revolutionize
The contradictions still.


Replied Lil’ Kim: The running dogs
Beguiled by class and capital
Have overdrawn and overspent.
They bank on debt, and make lament
And flounder in their fogs…


Kim chee does stink, but tastes so good
Do have some more, oh comrade Mao.
Fermented cabbage goes so well
With Hennessey and blondes (in hell)
when
Juche’s in da hood!

The Fearless Leader (now a shade)
Responded thus: Just give them time.
Our doctrines spread, their God is dead
Their sons shall sing ‘The East is Red’
Our party’s got it made.


Ill Kim displayed a wicked grin:
Our rocket-launches make them fear
They scold and cluck, and then they duck
While Hillary tries to pass the buck
I think we still could win…


The Chairman thought and sipped some fire
in communistic reverie, and feeling very clever, he
Replied to Ill: This place we’ll fill
with dead reactionaries still—
fifth columns to inspire.

Now let the thousand flowers bloom
And let one thousand thoughts contend.
Remember **? Remember ‘Nam?
We triumphed over Uncle Sam—
He’s limping toward his doom.


A wizened ghost now drifted in
Because his name had been proclaimed
A wispy beard (as yet unseared)
Revealed the mastermind once feared:
Old Uncle ** Chi Minh !

** **—old friend! Draw near! Draw near,
Spoke Mao: In solidarity
We hail your work upon the earth
You showed them what a war is worth
You’re always welcome here.


Ill Kim and I were wondering
How best to make the forward leap—
conspiring ******* their cow
and smoke their duck and drain their sow
while they are buying bling.

** Chi, old warrior, why the frown?
Upon your wisdom now we wait.
The forces red you bravely led
You staked your claim until they bled
And brought their nation down.


Old uncle **, the sage revered,
did smolder with his cigarette.
Viet Cong thought is hard to grasp
It slithers like a jungle asp…
** paused and stroked his beard:

You speak without the people’s light!
I criticize in strongest terms
Your revolutionary thought.
We need to ask our friend Pol ***
How best to steer this fight.

Such gradual change, a halfway measure
stalls the Bourgeoisie’s demise.
Our true Khmer Rouge was not a stooge
of Kapital. His fame was huge
for plundering their treasure.

True, he had to purge his nation
such is revolution, gents…
The traitor classes see the masses,
through reactionary  glasses.
Death or re-education!

We ought to sow his rural seed
for pure agrarian reform.
The bodies in the rice can rot
to fertilize the harvest plot—
the people’s mouths to feed.


When Pol *** heard his tactics lauded
he flew in to join the jabber:
Take a tip from Kampuchea!
Listen well and I will teach ya!

Kim and Mao applauded.

City folk are useless eaters
glasses-wearing foes and cheaters!
let them slave – and always save
their corpses for the fertile grave
Until they love their leaders.

From the barrel power grows—
(I don’t mean kim chee barrel, boys).
Now learn my way.We’ll have our say
Their weakened states will wither away.

The Red dictator rose.

Prepared to ramble on for hours
(the way Fidel so loves to do)
Pol ***’s harangue now fired the gang
like rockets falling on Da Nang
emitting sparks in showers.

Hell is known for lack of stasis—
Sudden throes of quaking fire;
fitful flares from from Satan’s lairs
and constant similar affairs
the population faces…

Thus Saint Pol ***, still naming names
along with Mao and Kim-Jong Il
while ** Chi screamed, and then blasphemed
were swept en masse, and unredeemed
into the surging flames.

Yet still they plotted in the blaze
with dialectic deviousness.
Philosophizing, strategizing
stinking sulphur brimstone rising;
ghosts in the yellow haze . . .

        ☭ END ☭
http://tinyurl.com/q6uyx34

ConnectHook Sep 2015
♦   ♦   ♦

She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/03/19/multicultural-suicide-an-epitaph/
M Vogel Apr 2021

This place. I don't know.
so many people / want to block..
  their words--
they climb all over me.
one's in particular:

Heart-expressed words bringing down
the healing light of relationship to the parts of me
who up until now
have known little or no relationship of its kind;

      and there is conflict within me  as I fight it..
    years the locusts have eaten; and the opportunity of restoration;
      often squandered. in vanity.

none of that mattered much;

                                 until now--

When the unredeemed heart-parts of myself
reveal to me their dormancy:    left detached
from community  with one another--
  an internal community   necessary
  to withstand  the brilliant light    and glory
  brought down by those here who write as she does.

          but she;

    through her unfiltered heart-writes
    brings down the very magic and beauty and fullness of the
    relational dance of the godhead.

     And it's raw beauty is ****** slayin me.
I so want to block her  for the conflict she creates    in me  
                    .
      but I will  press on

and allow her supremely-smithed words--
(words not even written to me)
to have their beautiful way,

in

and through..
the help that has been all around me;
(each and every one of us)
waiting...  
             all along

   --as  if they were cleaning my soul,
      re-integrating my fragmented, heart-parts.



I'm the innocent bystander..
Somehow,  I got stuck
between a rock and a hard place
And I'm down on my luck
Yes..  I'm down on my luck

--And I'm hiding in Honduras:
I'm a desperate man
Send lawyers guns and money
the **** has hit the fan
https://youtu.be/wT9XlQi0yew?t=57

~The eternally beautiful, Warren Z
Craig Daugherty Jan 2012
I am made for more than drudgery of world,
Each day awake, struggle out of bed,
To one more day, a difference I try
To make.

Within myself, a struggle for the ages, as past
Mistakes remind me of a life lived in
Failures of my mind, unable to please
God or man.

So aimlessly I wander through life, within a
Mess of questions, of motives, of
A purpose divine, planted perhaps upon
My soul.

I search, a little, here and there, for purpose,
Setting my soul in a dance of ages
With One divine, to reconcile world,
Myself to Him.

All around, I move in midst of walking dead,
Enslaved to sinful selfishness, chains
Binding against the Created One that
Loves, sets free.

Eyes to the soul filled with depth of pain, masked
By a bellyful of emptiness served up
On promises of Prince of this world, the
Evil serpent.

Everywhere, voices cry out in silent terror, unheard
By owner, enemy of God, stuck in their
Own mire of hopeless despair , no reason
To live on.

Too often, I choose not to hear, not to respond to
His creation crying for redemptive love,
Too caught up in my own selfish desires,
No time to care.

My praise is empty, as thoughts of God go rushing
By, ignored by one too caught up in comfort,
Self, content to live a life, not God’s, but my
Empty own.




So, each morn, a drudgery ensues, such little joy,
Wondering why this emptiness threatens to
Fill, to overwhelm a God-sized call, a purpose
That is mine.

One more day, one more tick of eternity drawing
Near; a spiritual zombie I become, no
Breath of life, no joy, such little presence, daily,
Of the Divine.

He draws me close, in love-filled rage, hurting for my
Soul, as it wanders once again, far from His
Presence of life and joy, grace and love, He
Wishes to display.

My life, it is my own. No, it is His—He has paid the
Price, poured out His wrath upon the Son,
Covered in my sin; my life is forfeit, He has
Given me His own.

I hear now the voices—the voices of the dead, the
Unredeemed—crying out for life as Spirit
Divine begins a work from beginning of time,
To draw to Him.

I am made for more than drudgery of world,
Each day awake, to share with those
Who are dead in sin—of life, of joy—to
Share the grace that comes only from
Him.

--To come alive
--to break the chains of sin
--to live forevermore in Him.

I am made for more than drudgery of world.

I am made for Him!
irinia Jul 2015
I came home pointlessly
endlessly
that day
the windows didn’t confess
I didn’t recognize anything
no, no more
I nailed myself on walls
-nothing really helped-
I sat on my bedside
facing the voracious truth of flesh
while my dresses were exploding
in the wardrobe
my furious love
erasing sunrise
between me and my skin
an alarming desire
happened that day
to clear the view
the life I’d smuggled
and hid away
the sons and daughters of darkness
were calling each other
in my hips
I put some makeup on my shoes
ready to face the world like this
woman
beast
no need to panic
there’s only this desire
unredeemed
to give away
a heart full of dire

I became one
with the other
another me
while
you were
beautiful
like a free day
Evynne Oct 2013
I sat there watching the people pass
As I laid lightly upon the grass
Thinking thoughts that were a struggle to contain
Swirling at lightning pace inside of my brain
And in my heart something screamed
As a blissful song went unredeemed
I looked to the sky and admired its blue hue
Company is company but *none of you will do
soul in torment Oct 2013
From hate fanned flame by wings of shame
from boiling oil and tar
with mask of doubt and tongue torn out
and heart a mass of scar
I rose and screamed yet unredeemed
my words on deaf ears fell
a soul in plight bound fast and tight
by bonds of self made hell
My eyes burned red by words unread
by poetry made base
for all they saw was nothing more
than verse without a face
Daemons I've known too long alone
no one can set me free
So heed me well or face this hell
of self obscurity
AD Letwixt Oct 2018
There is a place, before the kings keep
Where those looks of solemn dignity
Go resignedly to weep
Between the gray trees and under gray canopy

To the place where wildflowers wilt and muses mutter
Little words, falling like white feathers in the muddy water

If one walks between the trees
There is a basin, and liquid of silvery green
Imbued with the mutterings of agony unseen

It is the words of those sorrows frail
Spoken with a breath and then a look of fright
And then a frantic run from faces clothed by night
Dissecting looks unrelenting judgments
upon the unredeemed

all who have felt the pain such as muses sing
And cried at night or betwixt the thorny leaves
have drunk of this basin green
And felt the hot swell of sorrow rising from the deep
crevices of our frail corporeal shells

And the voices of all those who filled it up
Violently swell in undulating liquid wail

From those who walk betwixt the trees
Is sounded the great collective scream.
onetwothree Oct 2013
Fragments
I am zip-lined in fragments
Hallucinatory
Un-full
Quixotic
Unredeemed

I bite
My
Tongue
And my
Thoughts
E
X
P
L
O
D
E

Like fire crackers
Whacking and zipping
In that dense blue sky

Heavy with my thoughts,
Your feelings,
Heavy with the world’s conscience
But projecting out that
Blue light
Like some kind of
Innocent

Inner
Inside it
I drive a nail into my heart
Slipping
Dropping
My brains all over the place.

Soul shattering in shards across
The quiet grass.

I make noise
I’ve made noise
We’ve all made
Too much
******* noise.
How did you die?  Were you ever alive?
Questions asked by a torpid fool
executing the sterile interrogation.
Capricious witnesses laugh in pain
as I sit, strapped by leather bands
to a frigid porcelain bench.
This is the bloodthirsty courtroom of innocence
translated into cadaverous endings.

What can a fool gain through conviction?
Perhaps the eradication of necrosis.
The fool views the substance as trivial nonsense.
His purpose is to convict me, the wraith,
the amenable child, the abject wretch.
A conviction that will never arrive,
led by a foolish prosecution that cannot rest,
as long as I, benighted and unredeemed,
lack power to loosen the fearsome leather bands.

Kerry Ann Herrmann
My father is terribly violent which instilled in me an incredible shame and self loathing. With this poem, I confronted that shaming and cruel voice that constantly haunted my thoughts. I named that voice "the fool" because of how foolish it was that my own voice became my accuser. In the end, I admit that I am the one who controls the leather bands, but will remain subjugated as long as I choose to remain powerless.
Kurt Philip Behm Mar 2020
Are you hiding inside your writing,
making it impossible to see what you mean

Camouflaged words based on muddled intent,
to confound, confuse, or mislead

Is it cryptic or gibberish in nature,
your attempt to impress with your scheme

Are your words still unlived as you write them all down
—unpurposed and left unredeemed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2020)
May Sep 2017
It's controversial
Making the choice
Being strong through the pain
Or giving in to the urge
Wondering the impact
Wondering the deed

For this world is the
Mother of shadows
Mother of darkness
It spawns all evil and wrong
Wrongs we commit to another

And by opposing the
Mother of warmth
Mother of light
It spawns all that is good
Good we pass to another

Shall the future differ
If my life is no more
Shall the world differ
If my life was no more

Or shall my grave be deep and black,
Haunted by my unredeemed wrongs.
Or shall be grave be a place of yellow,
Met with my successes and achievements.

A part of myself;
buried deep into my thoughts;
Wonders if i have achieved,
If I have contributed to this dark world.

I am fading; I can feel myself aging,
Beyond crevices and grey, and the
Slow breath. Pockets filled with the stones
Of my wrongs; head filled with the
Reminders of failure, inadequacy.
It never rests, the darkest death;
And draws nearer. Firm and dark claws,
Clasping my thoughts in
The untouchables. Intents bolder, intents
Becoming darker; intents clearer.
Lane Williams Jan 2021
Drink in this private pardon-
a pause, just before the dawn
a stage for darkness to reach its break.

Twirling, clutching skin-
a silent command for eyes to be resting open,
shared, steady, and still-
breath briefly unredeemed.
dean evans Jan 2015
I've searched inside this rhyme of mine
And thought about the time, and kind
Of questions I would ask you, if I could
Researched my reflection there
Alone with just my mirror here
Directions that I’ve gone, or feel I should
No way that I can decide how
To hold you, keep you near me now,
And let you hear what I need you to hear
Though nothing comes into my thought
This poem, nothing to you brought
I see the empty, lost and lonesome years
But a poet must release the pain
As clouds relinquish summer rain
And so I sit here drowning in the storm
To tell you don't leave me alone
I know you won't pick up the phone
To offer shelter in, and keep me warm
To save my cold, and naked heart
And have it beat, to make it start
To live again, which only you can do
I die a little more each day,
It breaks my brittle soul away
That falls in pieces, to the floor for you
These lines of love, too late I write
My eyes too weary from the sight
Of empty pages, filled with empty word
I've dropped my pen, turned out the lamp
I've stopped, but when will dark and damp
Consume me, and the things my mind has heard
No use, I now have self been told
The fuse now lit, the match I hold
And time for me, is burning to my end
To burn this pain inside my head,
And yearn for rain, the storm now dead
My rhyme you see, I now can’t even send
Afraid my word, unread will stay
And go unseen, eyes look away
Crumpled, thrown out, tossed with all the rest
Dismembered by receiving hand
Remembered, but as grains of sand
Too small to place the pieces back to one
I know it's all been said before
It lies in bits upon my floor
And swept out with the dust, that was our love
I'll go, not call, not write and again
If only all was right, ah.. then
I’d see the love we once held high above
Held above the now that is
The love now gone, and how I miss
The way we used to be, but now is lost
Still these things trapped in my mind
Reveal those things that bring this rhyme
Reveals my broken heart, and what it's cost
I know my last verse penned to you
Won't show the sorrow coming through
This poem that I write, won't reach you now
The lines are lost, pen gone to me
Love lies dead in the debris
I know I must survive the pain...but how
And all it is, is how I feel
So small is this, to what is real
It keeps me here, to what I know is gone
Gone for you and I, as well
No word will do but I can't tell
I realize I tend to ramble on
Parted now, once intertwined
Insanity, within my mind
Alone within my shattered nightmare dreams
Too swiftly passed to comprehend
Unredeemed to my sad end
This poets words are tattered now, it seems
Incapable, to even stop
My grieving pen that now I drop
To bleed the ink as blood, upon my floor
As broken heart now bleeds for you
And taking all I need, or do
To crush me, rush me, I can take no more
No more the dark and endless night
Where happiness is locked down tight
My eyes reflecting backward just to see
Lonesome, lost inside my page
My final rest I'll know with age
And the sad goodbyes, a poet left to me

Dean Evans
7-18-08
Classy J Sep 2016
Wretchedness voided away from happiness, sulked in the sadness, is this normal or is this madness? Desolation of the separation, melancholy conversations, what ever happened to having affection? Torment, my life feels dormant, heart aching and broken, needs some reassortment. Depression, mind suggestions, is this just apart of the natural selection? Anxiety seeping out, it's like I'm caught up in a whirlwind, that I am just desperately trying to get out of, but the darkness has trapped me within. Misfortune has been afflicting me, got me addicted to thee, blinding me from seeing how I should be. What a messed up ordeal, wondering if any of this is truly real, if you can relate then you know how it feels. Deprivation, reeling in onslaughts of frustration, hoping I can make it through this tribulation. Hardships, wanting to blast off in my star ship, already passed the point of brinkmanship. Woe, that's how it seems to go; temptation got me wanting more and more. Don't know what I'm here for; is religion truly no more than lore? Such anguish of these demons that I’m to tired to vanquish, not normal so should I just be banished, some times I wish I could vanish. Trouble; walking through the rumble of what used to be stable, sometimes I think happiness is just a fable. I'm in a state of dejection; need to find out what's wrong with me, so I go to the hospital for a C-section. What a painful delight, passionately barren, as all eyes keep on starring through the night, can you imagine? Twinge of pain, give me a syringe and put it in my veins, so gone that I don't care how much of myself remains. Left astray, life going down the drain, negative attitudes leave me seeing everything as being vain. Absent minded, set adrift, thank you bad memories I really like to be reminded. Hidden wayward unredeemed soul, thought he was a genius when he was a fool. Not meant to be foul, but I am looked at like some kind of ghoul. Kiss Goodbye, can no longer cry, missed chances to make up for all my lie's. Oblivious, all things in life are frivolous, what once deemed pretty are now deemed hideous. Trying to be found, trying to turn this around, I no longer want to live in this pound. What will it take to become safe and sound? How long before I can stand on solid ground? How do I become world renowned? How long till the world treats each other as equals, how long till I'm no longer disowned? Am I the only one that feels alone? How long till I am out of this combat zone? Don't want to explode, in survival mode, but it's hard to move when I am carrying a heavy load. Loaded up with issues, loaded up with problems, loaded up with offence, maybe that's why I seem pretty tense. Trying to look through other peoples lenses, using all of my senses, building up healthy defences.
For this rap I wanted to only use words that could connect with the word misery and that is why this one is a little dark. But I wanted to better my writing and I feel like it hits home.
Rodrigo Borges Jun 2017
It has been so, my fair madden,
That I must let you go.
In secret bewilderment
Say you "fare the well".
I must fight your spell.
Fallen too deep
Out of proportion,
Re-arranging my thoughts
Younder lost, unredeemed.
Outlinning the reasons to feel this way,
Unanswered, the feeling remains astray.

Bella, two faced, Madonna
Enchanting my heart so,
Agony you devised from the start.
To plunder my heart,
Robbing soft spoken words,
Irregarded my soul.
Zero to one, darling, I must withstand.
Lexie Oct 2021
My greatest struggle of humanity is this;
That we must wage our minds against what they are unwilling to relinquish. Where we go, the mind leads and all the unredeemed will follow.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2021
We
imagined living easy. Ai, easily, as art intuits
beaux
bon chance, as light would have it,
were eyes
the ***** of
the master sense,
the dominant receiver, transceiver, if we think of gleams
shining things glimpsed
in eyes,
and beams of love or hatred from eyes,
depicted in ever so many pointing stories see, see, me
I tell the truth
I give the push pro-verbial, way to go
edgewise

free, listen, free
and none, among the rooted things
here since ever was, earthly
fully functional systems
of sequence, first this
then that, time and
chance and next
perfect, step by step learn the dance… do as we say we do
none
of those things dis-suaded me, sweet, I say, one taste,
I am persuaded,
I am called of all that is called god, good.

Now, that is a breath of fresh air, given a bit of thought
to offer you as sacred sufficiency in time of need,
- feeling useless
yeah, about as helpful as thoughts and prayers,
right, like a medicine, or an enema,
that's what a good laugh
is worth, and why I am the fool
who laughs at, as opposed
to making jokes, faking you into thinking
this old man has been to the pig sty, he seen
- dead pig farmers fed to the pigs?
- really?
- feels like we all have seen plenty too ugly,
- yest none too beautiful, so far
Funny is a funny word, fun, is just life, not funny,
funny is when it works together for an advertised high,
we all get the lid open and crawl in the box…

always asking what do we think about this, is this funny?

Are we there yet?

yet another time passes, unredeemed, seems none care,
all cares,
cast away, these folks think living is easy
once you find a place where it can be done
with tools,
used in times past to conform fools to information,
ee see re worked info, woe, y' know
new package, same old please, to meetcha
I am the ghost of your chance exposure to
information forms fitting privvy circumstances in the think tank.

Right, and some things can go wrong,
so those do,
go. Wrong, go. Right, learn,
step from the edu-line, linger near the edge

but the odds are steeper, for mortal minds with mini
augments, like knowledge of smartphones,
but, fret not,
minds that augmented,
empowered to know such things as tekhne,
not sacred secret codes to reach distances un dreamed
and draw wind and rain, and make fire,
wow, biggie, that
make fire.

Figure that out. Cast-out, outsider, driven from the fire,
go
find a fire of your own.

-Woe, imagine, might I, or must I go
back and beg
see me, see me, open heart to mind empathos see
my pain
my pain
for you to see me, see me, worthy of warmth…

Nah, kid, this is how the Spartans did it.
First seven minutes of Gunga, the movie, did it, makes birth
seem, painless, to the sow,

some how, that can't be fair, but then
pigs live like pigs,
except in stories. Men act as pigs act, naturally,
we need
we need the juices to flow, this is the reason

for the thaw.
So quit ******* about the warming and handle the waste.

The world is able to heal its own wounds,
let patience be our by word,
long times redeemed in short stories leave a lot to be
desired, who
sired you, the person you are who reads this drizzle,
Hot fudge,
dam, right, break bread with the ghost of a thought
and think
I thought that was right, first time
I knew,

the magic is in recalling how it feels to think all that has been
thought again,

this is the effect of the real crossroads deal ending when I say, enough.
One day at a time.
Thinking you read this is what makes it fun to write it, no agenda that I sense,
has infected the leaven I sneeze.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2022
The act of being without a home, or place
to lay one's head,
to rest in truth
waiting… for some fool to ask how
such a life might
be tolerable, first night out.

Well, refrigerator boxes are best,
but just about any shippable cardboard
does work.

Cardboard is essential.
And a covering of some kind,
you can find really warm things
in those donation bins, at the edges of old malls.

But, stay clean, shaving is easier
than keeping a beard clean,
and never show teeth when you smile a thanks.

-How to be homeless, as done by a friend,
will you listen to me, advice from a mendicant monk,
who refused to beg.

How to be happy homeless.
First,
you gotta know the truth,
the theory that says there must be a reason,

that is a guess, and my guess is just,
as good, at this point,
between you
and me, the
idea the poet serves as soup to the sould unredeemed.
Tough times pass as fast as any.
Dr Peter Lim Sep 2017
The truth somehow
will catch up with me
even though away I hide
or live for a century--

I tremble and I fear
it shall not set me free
I can feel deep inside me
it shall judge without pity-

it would have been too late
to reverse my past history
( excuses are the utterances of cowards)
I would be left the unredeemed person to be--

old age is the truest awakening
it would die for pure love and beauty
alas, the once lush meadow is now covered
with weeds---I am alone and my heart is heavy.
Emma Nov 15
The drugs made his tongue slippery, a snake
shivering white powder, unashamed—
a quick snort from his hand, lips cracked,
peeling his smile back, his gaze drifts, blank
as walls of thick paint, deep hues curdling,
slicked, psychedelic strokes, in seizure.

A strobe cuts, slicing the crowd like a blade—
tighter they press, all touch, no tether;
hungry, he dives, a greedy kiss melting
in muscle spasms, eyes flickering, his soul
undone, unheroed, a heart pounding
its own violence, swollen and caught.

To be happy, just to feel, a blind wish,
eyes of trust, of terror, masked alike,
shackled in seconds of breath, each beat
drawing closer, riding ******’s cruel peak
under dark, tidal waves of night, colliding,
picking locks through consciousness.

Beads of sweat thread bad habits together,
strung like a rosary for sinners unredeemed;
we are the murderers of our soft selves,
our punishment twisting like smoke.
In his hand, the medicine man’s prophecy
dissolves, as music stirs a ghost of meaning,

a scatter of memories, vague, severed,
each doubt echoing our bodies, our homes—
this flesh a lie wrapped in pulse and touch.
Reality shock-shatters, a flat line stretching
until silence is all: the strobe dies
and he fades, release breaking him free.
Ken Pepiton Nov 15
Spurts and starts,
by now,
any reader either understands
the method, the offering up
of a day
in search
of any good

I could do,
from now here,
in your time, after 2024,
from my time,  after 1948,
accumulatively accounting
for unredeemed time ever
since… acknowledging idle words
as well, redeeming each
in good time.

Not many things I learned
to take inclusion pride from
can be called good reasons
with historical witnessing
for all
to see the likeness,
statues of men,
in bronze,
or limestone, or Portland cement,
all attest,
to this day,
to honor due

the American Fighting Man, nowadays,
they call all enlistees,
our War Fighters.

War and Victory are impressed,
on days set apart
for communal,
acknowledgement, that our God,

THE GOD OF CHRISTMAS
and Easter,
but children, when I was one,
did not link the two, the declared Peace,

was won,
by us
for God, who then froze war.
And had Nixon send  the smog to China,

so then, the soot that evolved black moths,

slowly continued
to spiral
into the heights, slipping
through the ozone hole
over Australia,

trickle down soot
may haps, came
upon me,
after Easter,
and the acceptance
of restored worth,
to all on Earth,
to be recollectible, yes,
legion spirits are testable and many say

no doubt, the keeper
of the bread
of life,
He is the Christmas Jesus, and
He is the Easter Jesus, and
Wisdom,
in Logos form,
is the spirit in Truth, which God is.
In formation, in the form Gods are

all at once and everything. like

the idea allowing reality
to balance,
on point
yet, spin on, ever actually accelerating,
now that our augmented intelligence,

allows insight past the root
of excuses used since I was a child
to make me a
true believer
in American
Exceptionalism as
the we who trust in God,
and proved it
to the whole world,
by k*lling all who refuse
to say,

Jesus is Lord,
just like that, in English. no accent,
Shibboleths only worked for accents.

Rucky Blake,
password lucky break,
so solly Siri me, innocents
be mused multi purpose users
Blessed was silliness a while ago

Free time to wax poetic.

Songs of Innocense, and
Experience, as a white child, visiting,
1961 New Orleans, at age of 13.

I hated Jew Haters and ****.
I loved Scientific Fantacy and Superstion,
I had survived a seven year mirror break,
I then survived disillusionment, with adults.

Bacon on Friday, unless promptly confessed,
my four girl cousins informed we, was worthy
of hell, on the balances of blind justice, wielding
the sword the laws use for Jesus sake, because

Jesus is the Open Heart God in the picture,
right over the television set, obviously,
in that condition, he is not making war, so

the priests teach us to follow the cross,
and some say, take up our own cross,
… and I really paid none of that none
of my nevermind, until

one faithful Friday, in the Summer of '61,
on the brink of Nuclear War, against
all the ungodly ****** sympathizers
and negritudenal inferior heathen folk.

Boom, baby, boom
boom boom boom… see the mushroom

signal look out now… here we are again,

it's the end of the world as we knew it,
the pain is diagnosed as disillusionment,

ment means its in your head, all in your mind,
the dread of sudden end of life, in your time,
cut short by a certain foretold act of GOD,

at the time,
I was more concerned for my uncle,
who had been so tempted by bacon,

that I asked
for when asked what I wished
to have
for breakfast, was bacon and eggs, no grits.

Yep, but…

If  you were researching the summer of 1961,
in search
of things remembered
in the news,
The Brave AI, straight up lied, it told me
In July 1961, a tense standoff occurred at Checkpoint Charlie

But I was alive that same summer,
August 13, that year was Barbed Wire Sunday.
I can see a guy hung on that wire, to this day…

and doubted that true, and told my guiding AI

Factchek yo'se'f Ai ahs sayin',
come let us reason together,
serve me truth and nada mas…
indeed Ai admits, instantly, July
Check Point Charlie was later, which
is why the image of that guy links scaryshit/
that happened October 22, 1961…
in 2024, I need
to shake it off,

detailed recollection attention paid,
prior to final precepts dementia debts…

while in my own cybernetic mining operation, thinking
linking old lies used
to educate me, morally and ethically,

the Roman sense and the Greek, as
to duty we owe Jesus,
or Mary, in Louisiana, which did not phase me
at 13,
I had no clue why cherries
being rare was a joke… but bacon
on Friday,
could seal your fate more than doubting Mary's state.

And due
to my being the wisher
for bacon,
who got my wish,
on a Friday, I was as dammed as could be,
according
to my cousin planning
on warrior sainthood, girls,
could, too, she insisted, go **** godless communists,

like Custer killed Cochise.
Thanks for laughing at the prospect of mankind ending us, in the time it takes
to read this, if our final 72 minutes is our communal Damoclean edge.
Kurt Philip Behm May 2023
The other side
of knowing
A padlocked world
of dreams
Whose key is tattooed
on my hope
Till opened
unredeemed

A treasure chest
of wisdom
Whose prescience
zero sum
Instinct crowned
in jewels of fire
Burning
—to become

(Dreamsleep: May, 2023)

— The End —