Reading a book alone in the Redwood Forrest On the observational scale, I do sit here in the redwoods in lotus pose, with a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance on a stack of logs next to me. What is the catch? Is that but the paranoid disillusionment of the redneck hippiesContinue reading “Reading A Book Alone In The Redwood Forrest, a poem”
What Place Do The Artists Have in Revolution? PRODUCE! Must produce content! For fame, For a following, Quite literally and painfully so, thanks to the stench of both words. To produce is to manufacture, To manufacture is to produce. The workers are the ones who produce, So the artists, the writers, the creators, we areContinue reading “What Place Do The Artists Have in Revolution? A Poem”
Art in Our Times Piss poor excuse for a joke, All the un-ironic irony in real life. I have always said it, Life is a parody of the self, We live in Chaplin’s Modern Times, We are the machines, And the proles. We are wheels, Turning and obedient to the driver, Circle after circle, LoopContinue reading “Art in Our Times, a poem”
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 nameContinue reading “Wanna Be Socrates, a poem”
A remix/sequel to Shakespeare’s classic.
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 kindContinue reading “It’s Wrong When It Stops Being Fun, A Poem”
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 knowsContinue reading “The Hopeless Radical, a poem”
Would have, Could have, Should have. These words which only pay lip service to memory and potential and attribute cause to regret Serve no purpose but to hinder us As our world decays. We owe it to ourselves, To our living legacies still too young to fend for themselves, We owe it to them toContinue reading “Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda – A poem for a dying planet”
The Poet as the Revolutionary The poet as a revolutionary is an all too common trope. So what happened? Where did they all go? Where are the poets and lyrics and bards who can spark the imagination of a generation to end the segregation and the era of hate. The poet as revolutionary, A commonContinue reading “The Poet as The Revolutionary”
People Can Be Products Who are we but products? Products of our time and place? Dare what questions are such to be asked? Asked and then asked again! Trivial though it be, meaning is always the goal, the objective, the end. Are we just products? Products of anger, reaction, of hate, Or are we somethingContinue reading “People Can Be Products, A Socialist Poem”
God fucking cock sucking mother fucking damnit! Quite a poetic opening am I right? Yes a bit blunt but to be honest I am in a foul mood. I started off the year strong by getting published twice in one month, but ever since June it has been a series of pitches and rejection letters.Continue reading “Poetry’s Place in the Revolution: The Rant of a Socialist Poet”
Nationalists The blind patriot is now a parody, A joke that lives, Walks and breathes, Among us, Pestering us. Yet was never one of us, Was never a human, A person, But always a monster. Lingering and trolling about, So in a manner that the even the vulgar blush. What poison they are to ourContinue reading “Nationalists (a poem)”