Marxist Thinking RevisionRevolution!The banner for,The Proletariat of my ambition,Subjugated,Beneath the bootheelOf my Bourgeois apathy.Salivating with determination,Fierce, savage, thundering;Across the steppes of my mindWaving flags of redOver trampled, burnt fieldsCasualties of revolutionTriumphant shoutsOver the burning white flagOf status and classA phoenix dawnAcross an infant stateUnited from the ashes.
The Bells of St. Paul's RevisionThe mourning bell tollsAcross the bricks and shoalsOf London, oldPast pubs and roads where, many stories toldThe city cold and still, left to mournA hero, once bornNow laid to rest,On his nation's requestRange Rovers of blackShouldering this armored caskDraped by the Union JackTo inter this son, named SlackBelow the titanic spireBefore the funeral pyreFrom this once great empire,That has fallen in mire.
The American Dream RevisionHeading full long, across the tarmac expanseSlender strip of black, strecthing into empty vastnessThe start of this journey, across one nationSearching for its heart, and its soulRolling through fields as far as the eye can see, under the gentle breezeClothed in green, as the money roll.Caught by the tumultuous city, gilded in light and sparkling distractionFounded on broken backs and splintered factions.Speeding through small towns crammed with charm and the musings of SteinbeckLeft to rot, without gold or lead, upon piles of the long forgotten dead.Skirting crashing waves of cold, the warm wind blowsBringing garbage, oil, and evermore; ashore.Stopped before steps of white marble, pure and justMired in bureaucratic bustResting amongst plots of final rest, tranquil and cleanCosting the legacy to be left, and a family bereft.The end of researching and explorationInto the deep seated heart, of this fine nation.
Love Song in Drop D RevisionAn old guitar,Hanging on the wall,Collecting dust.Catching my eye.Battered body,Worn neck,Dull frets.Paint, far gone from luster.Walnut stained with oilFrom one setOf unskilled fingersAfter another.This old guitarPassed from personTo person, butWithout glory or fame.Handed off for,The same old reason:"Out of tuneNo matter what I do."Old strings, pulled throughReaching out, into stagnant airBeconing,As aged fingers of the beggarThe sound hole peeringPick guard, as a tearStill, it weepsSilent, it speaksI take this old guitarThat has been stoic witness for too longAnd left, battered and wornStriking one chordThe beaten strings singA sad, minor tuneA ballad, pleading..."Will you play? This song, without E?"
Marxist ThinkingRevolution, the policy that is neededThe Proletariat of ambitionunder the boot heelof Bourgeois apathyA slash and burn,Scortched earth of RedA new stateBorn of ambitionWorking for success.
Love Song in Drop DAn old guitar,Hanging on the wall,Collecting dust.Catching my eye.Battered body,Worn neck,Dull frets.Paint, far gone from luster.Walnut stained with oilFrom one setOf unskilled fingersAfter another.This old guitarPassed from personTo person, butWithout glory or fame.Handed off for,The same old reason:"Out of tuneNo matter what I do."I see this stained bodyEvery crack catching the afternoon lightDust, hanging in space.Silence holding my breath.Fighting my instincts, I breathe"May I see?"Large arms unfold accompanied by a nodFrom the man behind the counterHe grasps the neck, gingerlyShocking, from his size and strength.Dust cascades in thin whisps, down,As the battered body descendes from its gallows.He sets it down,Conscious of its age and wearStill, it restsSilent, it speaksI take this old guitarThat has been stoic witness for too longAnd left, battered and wornStriking one chordThe beaten strings singA sad, minor tuneA ballad, pleading..."Wil
The American DreamRolling fields as far as the eye can see, under the gentle breezeClothed in green, as the money roll.The tumultuous city, gilded in light and sparkling distractionFounded on broken backs and splintered factions.Small towns crammed with charm and the musings of SteinbeckLeft to rot, without gold or lead, upon piles of the long forgotten dead.The crashing waves of cold, the warm wind blowsBringing garbage, oil, and evermore; ashore.Steps of white marble, pure and justMired in bureaucratic bustPlots of final rest, tranquil and cleanCosting the legacy to be left, and a family bereft.
Jazz NightThe Big Easy swaysLeft to rightLeft to rightIn flourish of refinedDecadenceLeft to rightLeft to rightAlong the Mississippi's mightLight flicking like flameAs bodies pass by the panesRaucous bedlamTo the tune of bourbonPlay on, play onMan, play onDance madam, danceTo that whiskey bluesDance madam, danceBoth of you take a bowIn the light of the rum-fired skyLeft to rightNew Orleans swingsBy the shores of lake PonchatrainShe writhesLike the madam in the windowTo the golden sheen, whiskey bluesThe slow moon shinesAs the songs lieLike the sun at high noonA French Quarter tuneBelow that rum-fired skyDrifting, to the pinesOf that whiskey blues
A Tree of BlackBranches, lashing outClawing, as talons and FangsRending with shadowBlack, writhing plagueScarring this sanguine skyIn pure defiance,Fighting the white lady's mailed fistResisting her course'Till the last breath.
PrayerPlace your poemson the lips of angelsso you can teach their wingshow it feels to flyalways upward.Mark the summer eveningssoon to comewith the gracethat carried youamong us,warm and cherished softlyand know we will always placeyour wordsamong the stars.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
The ArtistShe talked to rocks, asking them if they’d be happyTo leave their home for her newest installation pieceShe cried sometimes for no reason other thanShe felt like having a good cryHer house was covered in her students’ drawingsShe said the best art was produced from innocenceShe went mad once, and painted canvas after canvasIn furious strokes of blackThe soft blue world of youth at last faded, she grew oldPeople shook their heads when they saw herAnd whispered “poor dear” under their breathBut she was never poorHer love for everything and everyone never diedIt was swept in all directions like a summer breezeMaking people smile without knowing whyBut the river rocks know
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
Photo-NegativeA weightless pause, the warmth between seconds.“You need to feel something other than me”, and the way you said it-Like the gazelle asking the lion not to chase her,and many similes much worse than that. and many smiles more cancerous than that.and everything I say you say I say- it’s all farm grade bullshit.Starting here, I begin to correct myself, control myself,before the words lose their beauty by taking on far too many meanings.I’ve cleverly described this enough times already: ants besieging a gone sparrow,the death rattle of an air-conditioner as the summer heat takes it,three boys swimming in a pond and only one survives their childhood.I’ve described this enough times to know that I’ve exhausted it of figurative substance.All that’s left is the picked clean husk of what it has always been; bitterness.Sometimes, less words are needed to define.
growththere is nothing more beautifulthan the softness of a manyou love more thanthe earth(shaking, geode),a face gentle in sleepand ardent in morning;there is nothing more beautifulthan the first breathof your spring,your blooming dawn,the incomingof nothing but you(blossoming, emerging,here,you flourish)—here,you are growingand transforminginto something new,and there is nothingmore beautifulthan that.
FacesFamiliar faces in a crowdLike wildflowersIn the sea of green fields