Rebels Lead The March of History (a poem)

Rebels Lead The March of History!

Do not forget,

It was the rebels who brought forth our days!

And do not forget,

the people who learned,

But got little praise.

Stupid is a condition,

Ignorance a choice,

So stop the idiotic voice.

So cheers to the rebels,

Who died for our better days!

And peace to those who lost the fight,

And lost it going insane.

They had no stake,

No burden unless they choose,

So it is no wonder

Why the rebels never lose.Nationalists

What good is a broken man?

What an era to be alive.

Yet how can one call living with no dignity living?

Crawling on knees to get to a safe place to release your bowels,

Begging from mercy from an overweight class traitor with shit aim

Only to get 6 bullets in the back.

For a cell phone.

Can it be called it living to beg for help?

Only to be denied it?

Only to be killed for it?

Only to be mocked for it?

Can it be called living?

So many men,

And even more hurt women,

All because therapy is either too expensive,

So we put the burden on the femmes.


Too expensive,

Or not manly enough.

Wouldn’t want weakness, or tenderness to show,


That’s how you end up with six bullets in the back apparently,

And lose your ability to walk,


Or breath.

That and skin of deeper tint which will act as hate’s magnet,

For what good is a broken man?

What good is fear?

What good is pain?

What good is a broken man?

And who can love something that is broken.

A Hand Over the Heart Does Not Feed a Hungry Child

Our content Mass production,

due favors in south outlier

and a perisistant traveller’s call for a prayer

of peace.

Tell me kid,

did you know there was a future in such

a romaceless field?

Distracted petty feuds

as it all begins to crumble

and become rebuilt.

Violence and rhetoric

in the names of things like patriotism

and overdue acts of symbol.

But will a symbol feed a child

will a gesture heal our heroes

will condesencion change anything

and is willful idiocy to be tolerated?

Patience is indeed a virtue

but must never become a weakness.

Ignorance is not to be a social tolerant,

and spirituality is foresaken in people

who see no end to their consumption,

no problems either.

A decade to look back on

and youthful disposition is yet to change.

Why must we kill our innocence?

Can we not indulge the senses

and still open our hearts to the old truths?

I say we can.

I say that we may,

and I say that we will.


Sweet Lady of our Mass Production.

Over-packaged literature,

and mass production.

Where is our savior street artist now?

Do not patronize me,

for better or worse

there must be benevolence to art.

The romantic dialoque of the starving struggle

is no movie based happy ending.

For in real life,

the story carries on the next day.


Statements of The Modern

Broken Woes,

The Soul of Man under Socialism,

and other important childrens books.

Would banning the bible in schools

increase it’s sex appeal?

Ah, sweet blasphemy

and an anachronistic marriage,

and a lie.

Rot in jail,

or pay the ticket,

still in the end

old songs become relevant again.


New Word

New word,

passive lacking in detail,

no lie,

just late facts and a painful shrug.

Tedious narcotic anxiety and an even older

annoying habit.

We are in fact addicted to our emotions,

and some are more toxic than heroin.

Anger kills brain,

and fear, the heart.

Trapped in adolescent disposition,

a generation,

of late lies.


The Story’s Answer Part 5

How many nights?

How many hours?

How many words?





Real and imposed,

now over,

now true,

not repeated.

This is an unknown

that is even unknown

so unknown the

unknown knows nothing of its

own unknown.

Rhythm all these

such no

know no rest,

no rest for the wicked,

none for the righteous



press on,

press every thought

deed and break only

on the rage.

It only belongs on

the page

It only belongs on

its word

each does

each goes

each flow

each mind

each scramble

so close

to an end

so far from a beginning

and they are there,


and the same,

the same truth,

the same lie,

neither are real

yet both are real

and this is

not a paradox

not a contradiction.

It is a job,

a reel, once,

source to employ

mind and hearts of

a romantic ploy

but also a way to

keep them in place.

Here is strung the real word

the real time

the real song

the real art

and I to judge

what is the real!


So you laugh

you mock

you grunt

you sigh

I do as well.

Here it rings

rings high


high on end.

End upon end.

But this is no


Nor means 

nor is it even indulgence.

It is some idea,

some pursuit we have 

forgotten in the short ring of

human memory

only in the 

limiting realms

of their own history.

What history?

What winner?

What ideas?

What limiting?

What verbal?

What act?

What sight

Who is to define

the real

the what

the we

the us

the I

the self.

We are real

we are here

even only in thought.

Disease of the mind

are real diseases,

no pain

no obscurity

is ever a real choice.

No right wing politic

is true.

No demagogue rhetoric

holds fair.

All idiotic thought

drones on,

all rhetoric ends.

I don’t need

a soapbox.

I don’t need a joke-box.

I need a laugh

and a wank.

Don’t we all,

What is our lust.


Our medication,

a gift.

What is our truth.

Indulgence is a privilege.

Excess was supposed

to be a sin.

Extremes are the

real sin.

No center

no balance

this is my culture

and these are my tears.

This is my pain,

and it is healed.

Your concern is to 

all its own medicine,

in any dose,

in any grace,

any necrophilic

ideal fails

and only love’s 

lust wins.

Love lust and

lust is love

and understanding

brings balance.

Once brought,

it is sold

never cheap

never a waste.

So here,

this new color,

this bright ring this

undue end.




and broken feature.

No more “god”

only the real god.

the real


not a tao

for that is a name,

no more names,

end the name,

but gain the self

and do all with 


to gain

to gain and give

is to hold that gain

even in moments

of the worst luck

will this be true.

No point in derivative


excess extent and wasted


and ink

and pages.

Smoke, drink, sing,

and read.

Life is not a bitch

but a beautiful woman.

Listen to his fable,

sweet talk this