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.
i was born to destroy youi am no hydra.there is no poison-tipped spear,no angry torch to hold to my necki may not raze your fields nor eat your livestockbut i was born to destroy you.when i smile i want you to thinknot of wolves, but of girlspretty girls, with flirtatious red lipsand teeth white as pearlsnot of monsters who lurkunder grandmother's bedswallowing children for supper.i am no chimaera, no sphinx:no hero can vanquish me on winged pegasusi cannot breathe fire or deceive with words(it's all appearances, everyone knows that.)do not forgetit was helen who launched a thousand ships,clytemnestra who slew agamemnonjudith who beheaded holofernesbecause no one thinks that your lipstickmight be congealed blood,nobody thinks that the points of your nailsmight serve more than a decorative purposenobody stops to consider the nightshade in your perfume,the foxglove flowers on the mantleand the cyanide in your purse.perhaps i don't look like a monster, but remember:no one's an angelan
Blue PillI've only ever followedthe path already sketched out for me, but the blueprintsprint blues to my forehead;to my forearms. Cracking smiles is as taboo to me as crack rocks.I've tried crossing the River Styx on my own, but I alwaysfind myself getting drownedby the Ferryman, as he tells methat it's not the right timethat it's over for me yet.So I take the blue pill and a handful of advilto ease into reality.
Play Me In CrescendoIt scares me that this could bemy last poem—something more than a goodbyebut less than my soul;a mere imprinton half a white pagejust begging to be read, read, and re-read.I haven’t even begun to graspthe hintings of love,its quirks & random tendenciesto be set aflamewhen you look into the eyesof someone staring backat yours.It isn’t fair for fearto house in the hollowsof your stomach,because there’s so much morethat’s worth the goodyou’re too shy to touch—knowing you’ve been burned before.
So darling, don’t leave me roseson my grave;read to me,in your happiest of voices,poems and quotationsyou’d give your heart forto trade.
SuspendedWinter has frozen her work now,secret names shimmering, safe, anguished.Lulled, we enter it like a rocking cradle,the white, vaulted roomwhere frost settles into glass, where we shrink with the noise of deathdrawing itself across the snow,packing up the wise, the sad, the beautiful.Our hands are older than our eyes, some say.Some say our memories are forgiven,that we’ve come to a placefamous for absurdity,but this is the part where we light the village farolitos,like children accustomed to time travel and invisibility,striking our matches in the dark.
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 equation formerly known as 'us'integrating integrity into nano-christened circuits, this is the difference between what you see and what goes on, the anonymities between our arteries and mitochondria: all the makeup of an atomic bomb, bits of fire and reasons why we didn't stop fast enough a level above consciousness,conclusion: is it sanctuary, like the sound of self-destruction and cannon-made creation, softer, slicker, a sunset in between your motherboard and the fifth dimension, sounds like love or anarchy, (the computation makes it wonder: what is the difference?)this is one definition tracked by linguists in the future: one, two, not addition but simulation, emulsion, (fusing) different atoms, different substance ingratiated quarks and bearing down,so tangled up the universedoesn't know us now
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.
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flameAnd eagles, turning, turn to fireAsh cold, alone I lieAnd think of you.
PhoenixI won't be your phoenix,your death wishof maudlin wordsstretched across this failing light.I will not wearnew wings for youthat crimson youwere born with -a mother's final wishto keep out the winterand weep.But I will wait,the flaw and beautyof your youthpainted across your palmsas you hold upthe moon to meet me.
FacesFamiliar faces in a crowdLike wildflowersIn the sea of green fields