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 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.
Therapy,
Too expensive,
Or not manly enough.
Wouldn’t want weakness, or tenderness to show,
No,
That’s how you end up with six bullets in the back apparently,
And lose your ability to walk,
Think,
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.
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.
9/20/15
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.
9/15/15
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.
9/2015
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.
9/1/15
How many nights?
How many hours?
How many words?
Efforts?
Deeds?
Projections?
Rejections?
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
either.
None,
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,
real,
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!
Ha!
So you laugh
you mock
you grunt
you sigh
I do as well.
Here it rings
rings high
High,
high on end.
End upon end.
But this is no
end.
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.
Delivered.
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.
Bought,
sold
paid
and broken feature.
No more “god”
only the real god.
the real
unnamed
not a tao
for that is a name,
no more names,
end the name,
but gain the self
and do all with
love,
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
lies,
excess extent and wasted
seconds
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
princess.
