Dull, now babbles some
wanna-be Socrates.
A Plato of the non-
existent preverbal page.
An awkward stammer
and pause gone about
with forced emotion.
So forced that it has no force,
no power,
gone and now at rest,
deserving non of its fake praise.
Lofty lust, and more incoherent
babbles and rambles in the name
of some forgotten crackpot
pipe dream.
Again this “philosopher” speaks,
and the actual teacher wretches in the corner,
excess is the key word
of the wanna-be Socrates.
Shall I compare thee to a summer sweat?
Thou art more sticky, unwanted and unpleasant.
Rough wings smelling of piss do flow wild as you speak,
And your public lease is illegitimate.
Sometimes too hot your words break,
And often is other complexions marked to for sin.
And every justice spirited.
By chance our natures changing course, you win,
But summer swelters always end.
No power you have is fair, throughout!
And death will grab you, gold will not ascend,
When eternal lines to time thrown out.
So long as we can breathe or see,
You are ruing my life’s prosperity.
So many tears,
So many years,
So many fears,
So many beers.
So many jokes,
So many tokes.
So many drugs,
So many hugs.
So much pain,
So much gain.
These are the things to live for,
So many things,
And so many more.
A wise man once said “It’s wrong when it stops being fun.”
Well, I have to ask myself, has it?
Has pining over the right word and cadence lost its spark?
What, except the dark cloud that seeps its invisible cloak on my psyche,
Keeps me from putting all for the gods and earthly kind to see,
to hear,
to learn the truth.
Poetry is not supposed to be work,
or is that too bourgeois?
I say poetry like anything can be rebranded for the worst,
but poetry is thought, the one thing that cannot be erased.
Poetry, is something to make all our own.
So, has it stopped being fun?
Not by a long shot.
Habit, my old friend,
Or are you my enemy?
You say habit
I hear “monotony.”
Someone else says it,
And I hear “addiction.”
Habit, you could make me a great man
Or you could cause me to self destruct.
Habit,
you are helpful,
But you can also be cruel.
Habit, you be what I tell you to be.
Soul and Pain.
Here we are again,
A dying planet and a line of willful morons
Humping their hands while complaining about the better sex.
No game, and they won’t shut up about it.
Our so called leaders are afraid to lead
Because they might not be leaders anymore if they do.
Complacency is safer than action only if you’re rich.
Sex and violence and sexual violence.
Two souls comrades butchered in the streets.
Lynchings protected by badges and city hall.
Soul and pain.
21st century lies and truth.
Soul and pain.
A fearful night,
and a burned bridge freshly smolders.
Such is the life of a hopeless radical.
Less sexy than a hopeless romantic,
but more useful than a hopeless idealist.
Two are ideal hands of the state,
whose hands when pressed against us
create our struggle.
Our struggle,
Our political struggle.
The hopeless radical knows
that identity is not solidarity,
and logic cannot fixate on rhetoric.
The pressing hands,
They ignite and explode gaslights
To burn and humiliate us.
This is the life of the hopeless radical,
Of the unbowed optimist.
The state, the struggle,
The hands against us,
And our rhetorical traditions.
This is our life,
The life of the unbowed,
of the unbroken,
of the hopeless radical.
