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.
progress reportthe astronauts never returned and neither did the newsin my hands i fold a megalithic pigeonthe take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitchas you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing.in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actualmastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy filmtightened like a fist; - and the scientists despair: it's the morning of the opening,then the few slashes of paralyzing waves.like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarma bandit, or a preacher or the oncoming horde of space invaders.but the drawings you sent to venus never returned, and now the crack, and the scientists at a loss before the angered public.they release a report that states that the floodgates opened by themselves, that the valves erodelike the chalky sand that will swirl and hiss
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 ones they call the foolsWe were a list of promises broken,exhausted and frightened to be heldin the hands of dreamers and liars and both because fingers have the tendency to let slip the things they love the most.That’s why we’re fleeting. Why poets call us clouds with no real direction. But really, we’re both running awaya
4 Random Poems The One About KitKats Frick frackSnick snackI need a piece of that kitkatI need a breakIt's a mistakeTo do things for to-do-them's sakeAnd I'd live life-Husband or wifeWith obligations and strifeSo turn awayWhile you mayIf there's nothing to make you stayBring your phone,The comforts you've knownAnd go find a new homeA safe placeAn empty spaceVacant of life's bitter distastesAnd I'll find what I lackedRoll the cross of my backFuck, I want a kitkat. lisuje is like- really pretty, guys. I promise A pale, pretty faceSurrounded by sandy dunesBlue-grey eyesReal and wild like a typhoonWatch her hairCarelessly roll down her backWatch her skinLike marble that wouldn't crackSee the graphiteRubbed on the side of her wristSee the pencilHeld firmly in her closed fistWatch her drawAnd capture what's actually thereWatch her DAand Tumblr, if you've time to spare azuneechan is love. Azuneechan is life. I'd seduce your pagesMake their kne
The Laws of AttractionHe likes to tell me how stars work.He explains that Hydrogen ignites, collides, infuses -and while he’s talking I am tryingto stifle the reverb in my heartbeat.I try and stop my heart going supernova.He tells me that the Hydrogen fuses into Heliumand eventually the star runs out of each -I try not to be forcibly remindedof every time I run out of Oxygen when he smiles at me -I’m trying to listen.He details how the stars elements burn outone by onecreating heavier elements that burn less brightly.I’m comparing stars to loveand smilingbecause to me, Hydrogen, Nitrogen or Iron -a star’s still a star at all its stagesand I love the stars.He whispers to meabout how these elements dispersehow they reform and relapseand I recall how stars become everythingHe’s got his hands in my hair and his grip round my heartso when the silence falls I can’t help but rush;‘There’s static energy in my
I'll Wait by the WaterThis is the place where our memories began.A creek at the bottom of a canyon,red cliffs on either side and a giantpond dam to the north that wildflowers grow on.Paths that we created through the woodsand up and down those copper canyon wallswhile we pretended to be wild Injunsor wanted outlaws being hunted by a posse.You were on your knees,in the middle of the creek,when I found you.A neighbor girl, trespassing.I had a mind to chase you offuntil I asked what you were doing.You looked at me, smiled, and said,"Catching crawdads. Come help!"After that day, we spent Springs and Summersbuilding fort walls and chasing frogs,skipping stones and arguing baseball,sharing comic books and trading punches.You could hit as hard as any boy I knew.We had our own bridge to Terabithia,our own kingdoms of knights and castles,won the World Series with back to back homeruns,settled the Wild West and discovered gold in the mountains.My parents thought you were imaginaryuntil I bro
I amSome would say that I'm a shadow of myselfBut truth is, I've been a shadow all along
RazorMidnight's tawdry pulseis feeble under my fingertips,and her long black dressfeels like Augustslipping through my fingers.I like how her bones complainthat I misuse them,tender to my touch,and how her jaw arches backand the moon arcs like a razoracross the room.We flaunt the stars,the stones under our skinstretching the bed frametill we crack.And I fill you up,your arms a battleraging in the waning liesof morning.
-Demons do not run when a good man goes to war...They march beside him instead,All for the glory,Of watching your world burn!
FacesFamiliar faces in a crowdLike wildflowersIn the sea of green fields