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.
an atheist's prayerdear god,i planted no tulips in autumnand no tulips came in spring.how silly of me, thento mourn the empty garden,to long for fields of amsterdam,to kneel at night in cold dirt,hands folded.i’ve learned there isa certain ache in lackinga thing never had, that small itchwhose relief is two seasons past –so god, if you can hear me,know that i am homesickfor amsterdam,whose name, like yours, i knowbut whose flowers i cannot see.
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
OC Meme*Copy this into your Meme..-Choose 10 of your OC's-Answer the questions-Then tag 3 people---188.8.131.52.184.108.40.206.9.10.---1.) 3, 7, 4, and 9 go ice skating. What happens?2.) Its Christmas!!! 5 throws a christmas party and invites three people of choice. Who does he/she invite? What happens?3.) 6 catches 2 dancing/singing to the 'spice girls'. What's 6's reaction?4.) 1 and 10 are stuck in a janitor's closet. How the crap did they get in there?5.) 4 confesses his/her love for 8. What happens?6.) 3 walks in to see 6 and 7 making out in 3's closet.. What is their reactions?7.) 9 and 5 have an argument that soon turns into a fist fight. How did it start? And How does 2 try to break it up?8.) 6 and 7 are getting married! But 8 is in love with 7. What does 8 do?9.) You here a knock on your door. You open it to see every one of your OC's bursting in to your home. What do you do?10.) 2 admits to you that he/she killed 9. What do you do?11.) Everyone gat
TapestryThe morning is a tapestry...tripping over last night's grace,I watch you weave your skinand shake out your hair -soft teal and jonquilshadowing your cheekas the curtains part between your hands.Threads tangle as you turn,telling medawn is a gentle lover,and the tumble of birdsplaiting their soft noteslingers on the pillowswhere your smile is my undoing.
not grief, but something like itmy grandmother's tartan bag sits on an upside-down bucket in the basement,full to the brim with little liquor bottles and cardboard boxesI go to do the laundry,pass it twice an hourand every time, just for a moment, I think she's visiting
apostasybefore he led me like a lambto the altar,he got me drunk.take this and eat, he said,hands on my hipbones,soft thighs, soft sighfor this is my body - but he gave me no bread, onlybruises, and he gave menew thorns for my headand i bledtill sunday morning.tell me:who speaks of resurrection?are you there,mary magdalene?mary, whenwill easter come?
AnimeAs soon as i saw Anime on Tv I was happy to see it played,I Like inuyasha, FMA, Naruto and many others but why?At 34 years old loving anime, isn't this strange?Loving Anime is loving someoneYou cherish it foreverUntil You die but Anime is Amazing what they can do today..Its in 2-D, 3-D and CG's But no matter what,Anime to me will always cherish me into my heart and soulWhen i was younger Anime never existed,Why?Anime will stay into the younger kids today,Anime Rocks,Anime will rule the world maybe someday?What can you do not without a pencil today?You Can draw Anime,You Can always give you're best shot to draw even if you're not good enough,True isn't it?You can put Anime on Tv, on a website about everything,Anime Kick Butt.
What We Eat to SurviveAlone, the air starts smelling likescrambled eggs and a rat thatdied in the wall. Mayflower sons,Puritan daughters, that kind of lineage.Alone, their thoughts detach from mildewedceilings. Crashed and peering under doorswith lurching frames, someone speaks.Until. But nothing ever opens.Alone, one voice in particular, and the trainacross town interrupts it. One in particular,murmurs an old song about the leagues ofsuffering that half a century can bring. Alone, and the first thing he sees are his father’s bones. What we eat to survive. Cast iron shadows,a fishing rod in the corner, sister’s torn prom dress.What we eat to survive.
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers thinkWe may dream our reality.With earphones attached liked IVsI dream my own melodic universe.Until someone laughs behind meAnd strikes up conversation with a friend.And in that moment they become my anchorAre they spinning through my dreamOr am I spinning through theirs?Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,And sometimes it all mixes togetherLike liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.When no one speaks to me for hoursI begin to wonderIs everyone dreaming a reality that includesThe whole café but me?The street outside the windowWith passing strangers, dogs and carsIs a whole new Milky WayWaiting to be discovered.But I am no space explorerAliens are beyond my reach.Whispers of the people aroundReach my ears distinctlyLike waves lapping on the shore.Words on paper go no wayTowards proving that I was ever hereMy identity is slowly condensedNot into the people who kno
FacesFamiliar faces in a crowdLike wildflowersIn the sea of green fields