Creative Writing Thread II

[RedAnarchist]

We used to have one, but it seems to have gone.

This thread is for general creative writing - poems go in the poetry thread.

Edit (Mujer Libre): We've now decided that this thread is for prose and poetry- so go for it Revlefters.

[Mujer Libre]

I was considering broadening the definition of the poetry thread to include creative writing in general. It makes sense considering that poetry is fuzzily defined anyway.

What do you (and others) think?

I'm reluctant to add another sticky because I feel that there are too many, but if nobody minds one more I can pin this too.

[Sentinel]

I'm reluctant to add another sticky because I feel that there are too many, but if nobody minds one more I can pin this too.

Here's a link (http://www.revleft.com/index.php?showtopic=19831) to the old poetry thread. Now I'd lock and unpin it, people can read it through the link if they wish to and contribute their own stuff here. Perhaps I'd restart some of the other stickies as well if I was you; it makes loading times go faster. ;)

I'd love to hear some fresh poetry by revlefters, but am unfortunately not capable of creating any of my own.

[RedAnarchist]

Originally posted by [email protected] 28, 2007 05:43 am

I'm reluctant to add another sticky because I feel that there are too many, but if nobody minds one more I can pin this too.

Here's a link (http://www.revleft.com/index.php?showtopic=19831) to the old poetry thread. Now I'd lock and unpin it, people can read it through the link if they wish to and contribute their own stuff here. Perhaps I'd restart some of the other stickies as well if I was you; it makes loading times go faster. ;)

I'd love to hear some fresh poetry by revlefters, but am unfortunately not capable of creating any of my own.
Thats probably best - the poetry thread is 17 pages long so we need a new one. I would agree as well with the idea of broadening the thread to include all creative writing.

[Sir_No_Sir]

Look at what you’ve been able to do. Are you proud? Do you think you’re a good person? With your suspensions, your scoldings, your report cards, our screaming matches. Look at the fucking therapist’s office. Why do you even make me go there?

Is it because I dare to dream? I dare to think about what could be, so I’m weird? There’s something wrong with me? No, I don’t think there is. There’s pretty obviously something wrong with you fucking guys. You’re all satisfied, satisfied with what you have. Big offices, “security”, “morals”, and “success”. Is that what life is to you? Have you ever even fucking thought about what life should be? Or do you just ask the question and pose a fucking fake answer?

Have you ever cared? Have you ever even been happy? Have you ever fucking lived? Maybe you have, and maybe The Breakfast Club was right. Maybe your heart really does die when you grow up. Is it because you’ve been so goddamn jaded? Is that why you turn around and punish me for thinking about what could be? Or maybe it’s because you’ve never lived, and you don’t want to see me do it either? You don’t want to see me die-not physically-but you do want to see me whither up like a dead rose, don’t you? Like a parasite, just hanging on the earth, contributing nothing, just sucking the life out of anything I touch?

Well, my god, have I got news for you! I won’t be another face in the crowd! I won’t be a statistic, and no one else should be either. Together, we can build something so amazing. We can fix the wrongs in our lives! But how can we expect to work together as a human race, when you can’t accept who I am? You hate everything I stand for, don’t you? You hate the idea that together, we can build something far greater, far more concrete then this shambled housing project we’ve inherited! We’re learning. Slowly, but surely, we’re learning what you want, and what we need, and how opposite they are. Two polar opposites. You want us to be a lawyer, a salesman, a doctor. All honorable professions, but not for those who find honor in the law. Not honorable for those whow ant nothing to do with selling overrated crap. Not honorable for those who find no honor in playing God. That’s the fucking problem. You want us to be what we aren’t. You’d rather make us destroy our lives and those around us with sleepless nights before exams, TV, videogames, sports. Why worry about your life as long as you can see the super bowl, a certain TV show, or pass a certain test? You want us to live day to day, for ourselves. You don’t fucking get it! We want to live for each other, for life! We don’t want forced relationships, of any kind. Not with you, not with our significant other, not with friends, and not with teachers. We want love to be full of life, and life full of love. I’d hope you’d join us. But then again, you never had what we wanted, or needed, or what made us happy, in mind, have you?

Let us live.

[Rage Against Right]

The Storm
A storm is nearing
Energy building in the heavens
A breeze of silence echoes over hill and dale
The world stops, and waits

The hum of thought stops the mind from the thinking
The world takes heed but we are oblivious
The warning signs are ignored but the mind ticks on
It has arrived

The journey begins
Shadows devour light
Silence devours sound
The sky devours the Earth

Into an abyss
We travel further down
Fire, brimstone are the myths true?
The illusion passes and we ride on

Ride on the sky
Straddle the rearing beast
Take hold the reigns and spur the demon on
Ride with giants, ride on, ride on, ride on

The unknown calls
The riders veer left, led by a sound unheard
They ride on the backs of instinct
They can smell it, they have reached the unknown

[Luís Henrique]

This has to go in pieces, for it is too long:


People of God, again: unmounted shepherds, exiled on their own land, promised and undelivered land, here they camp, in a mix of gipsy camping and church party. To sleep, to eat, to work, to struggle. And to pray. Just like now: what exactly is that they commemorate, under August's shy sun? A saint's day, memories of other fights, other campings? Why does the people gather, while the priests celebrate what kind of mass?

And what is that dust over the small, curvy road of dirt? Who brings news, who is coming to join the people in Sunday dresses? Who cames, foreigner? Do you come in peace?

It's an automobile, a Santana Quantum, and it does not come in peace; it comes roaring under the boot on the throttle, making the brittle fly under the alucinated tyres; it comes directly in the direction of the crowd, it comes to kill.

The crowd hesitates a fraction of second, in disbelief; and then flees, opening a thread, like the Red Sea for the Jews; men, women, children, the elderly, quitting from the front.

Only a small body does not find, or doesn't want to, the way of flight; the body of a small woman with deep blue eyes, that meets the murderous metal, equally blue, at the speed of a hundred miles per hour, and swirls in the air, already lifeless, open arms when it falls over her comrades, the last hug of a hurtful love: that of Catarina Pisan.

Luís Henrique

[Luís Henrique]

The automobile turns on itself: the hunt is not over; and then, when again pointed against the people, it coughs, it chokes, it stalls, as if the metal carcass, now dented in the front part, left light broken, could understand what is going on better than the man that sits at the steering wheel, and stays there, strangely fragile, taken by imense abandonment.

Two instantaneous circles form, one that verifies the inutility of any effort in favour of the open eyes reflecting sky, over the red earth soaked in blood, other that gathers around the repentful machine, ot take notice that the murderer is a well known merchant in Travessia dos Índios* and UDR member, and that is accompanied by a boy about ten years old, that now stares at the victims of his - father? uncle? - with eyes full of the fright of state of siege.

And now, what to do? Knives and swiss-knives quickly sprout out of as many hands, to reduce the tyres to rags, while the car coughs furiously, under the desperate attempts of its owner to bring it back to life. What do you do to a man who throws an automobile against a crowd, what do you do to someone who brings a child to a pogrom, as to a picnic? Eyes turn around, moved by habit, in search of the priest; but there will be no one to take responsibility for them: ostensively, the figure dressed in black shows them his back, over the improvised pulpit: God's representative will not judge his people if the the sand of Encruzilhada das Almas** acknowledges today the weight of still more a corpse.

* Indians' Ford
** Souls' Crossroads

[Luís Henrique]

Lourenço Topolski gets near the automobile, moving the comrades from the way with his huge hands, big even for someone who, like him, is almost six and a half feet tall. Known for his physical strenght, but not exactly for the brightness of reasoning, there he comes, now already close to the car. The others feel a kind of dizziness, seeing that he holds his revolver; which he grabs by the barrel.

- Thou art very lucky, tchê* - he exclaims, perhaps more to his comrades than to the livid worm that shrinks inside the Santana - that we are people, not a murderous beast like thou - and at saying it, hits the car's glass with the revolver's butt, which crackles in the characteristic way.

Lourenço pushes the broken glass to the inside, lifts the door's bolt and wide opens the car, to take the human rag out by the collar. He pushes the murderer's neck against the car's roof; another man would perhaps feel the temptation of revenge; Lourenço just would like to know how to speak, to be able to transform into words the despair, the mourning, the angst, his and the others'. But how to say everything that is stuck into their throats, from this last murder, through the torment o all those years in search of land, to all the nightmares that spread over the past centuries and three continents, failed revolutions in Germany, famine in Italy, foreign invasions in Poland, death by starvation or smallpox in the Tapes and Kaingang villages, the brutal crossing of the ocean of Gege and Bunda slaves, how, and, after all, why? In the end, words have never been Lourenço Polaco** best friends, and, of course, while he stares at the Santana's owner, they once more forfeit him, except one:

- Dog.

* Southern Brazilian expression, meaning something like "you guy" (or gal, it's unisex).

** Pollack, derogatory term for Pole.

[which doctor]

This was something I wrote and posted on another forum, where it went unappreciated. For those of you who don't know, DMAE is a nootropic and I was curious as to its effects when insufflated because I couldn't find anything on the internet about it.

I sat hunched over on the floor with a card cutting the white crystalline substance. Music was pumping in the background and sweat was dripping of my nose. Before I knew it I had rolled up a $20 dollar bill, put it up against by nose, and inhaled the two fat lines. I threw my head back and savored the burn. Just a minute later I felt the drip and a salty taste on the back of my tongue which no glass of water could get rid of. My head came back down and I sat there staring at a Noam Chomsky book covered with remnants of white powder, a bottle of DMAE, and an empty gel cap. I did it. I was a pioneer. Was I the first one to snort DMAE? Perhaps not. Was I the first one to record my experience on the internet? Probably, at least according to google. I turned on the fan to help alleviate the summer heat and turned my stereo off. Minutes later my nose was still sore, it's a shame DMAE isn't a local anesthetic like cocaine.

[black magick hustla]

Morality of disaster
---------------
Today Santiago destroyed the universe.

Santiago turned his head around, staring joyfully at the mindless destruction surrounding him. The stained glass windows were broken, the gold was stripped from the altars, the statues depicting saints were demolished...

And the Christ that used to hang in the altar, suffering excruciating pain and asking for sacrifice from his followers?

He was beheaded.

Santiago was in ecstasy. Behind him, there were another dozen of young souls, eager for more devastation. Everyone of them was smiling, watching with awe their masterpiece, the obliteration, the manifestation of years and years of relentless moral pounding on their brains and on their guts.

All of them dreamed for this day. Before, they where anxiously waiting for the night everyone would have the guts to do this. Before, it seemed so difficult. Climbing the walls of the church, then entering through the little opening behind it... Yet, once they were inside, everything went so fluently. A bunch of degenerated teens with bats, bashing and smashing every little statue, every window, every altar....

Bashing and smashing God.

They were the well-behaved kids from Mexican, middle class families—always obligated to come every Sunday to mass, and to listen to the pathetic sermons of an old man that died the day he became a priest.

Gustavito, please comb well your hair. Ricardo, please polish your shoes, you don't want other people to see you like that! Armandito, don't sleep here at mass, what will the other people think about you?

And every time their parents would order them to comb their hair, polish their shoes, and stay awake at mass; each one of those kids would lower their head, nod, and stay quite, with the sour taste of impotence in their mouths.

However today it was pay-back time.

Santiago turned around to face the crowd of his followers—his new brigade of destruction. Everyone of them looked upon Santiago with a sign of hope in their eyes. Everyone of them, had at least broken something in the Church.

“Fuck God!” Santiago shouted with all his might.

“Fuck God!” the chorus of alienated teenagers energetically replied.

Santiago, the leader of the brigadiers, was the most special, and perhaps, most destructive of those alienated teenagers. He was the masterpiece of a conservative family, the perfect middle class, goody-two shoes specimen. He was the valedictorian of the best catholic school money could buy, he played cello at the local orchestra, and he wanted before, to be a famous surgeon.

His parents paid thousands of dollars to the specialists of morality to create a functional member of society.

And then, one day Santiago just snaps and sends everything to shit.

Santiago walks from side to side, like a pendulum, in front of the altar. He glares at each one of the brigadiers, scrutinizing with his eyes each one of their souls. He comes to realize that everyone of them, was miserable and weak till this day, for this day was the day of their emancipation.

“We are a generation of teenagers raised by warm milk, tradition, catholic schools, virginity, and God.”

Santiago paused for a bit.

“...and we joyfully reject all that! The only morality we now know is the morality of disaster.”

The teens experienced a moment of epiphany. Until now, they didn't realize why they enjoyed so much beheading Christ, throwing bricks against the invaluable stained-glass windows, cursing God, and demolishing statues of saints.

They came to this very important realization:

Once you are not afraid of Hell—once you kill God...

everything is possible.

[black magick hustla]

Luis Henrique, I really liked your story. I thought the description o the old woman dying was really moving.

What does the car represents? The bourgeosie and its relentless violence?

Was "Dog" an insult?

[Luís Henrique]

Originally posted by [email protected] 08, 2007 08:54 pm
Luis Henrique, I really liked your story. I thought the description o the old woman dying was really moving.

What does the car represents? The bourgeosie and its relentless violence?

Was "Dog" an insult?
Thanks...

Catarina was a girl, though, not an old woman.

I think the car should remain unexplained, so that each reader can take their own conclusions; but yes, it is a class-driven murder, the UDR being the landlords' main organisation.

And yes, "dog" is an insult.

When I feel again in the translating mode, I will post the following.

Luís Henrique

[black magick hustla]

Originally posted by Luís Henrique+June 09, 2007 07:22 pm--> (Luís Henrique @ June 09, 2007 07:22 pm)
[email protected] 08, 2007 08:54 pm
Luis Henrique, I really liked your story. I thought the description o the old woman dying was really moving.

What does the car represents? The bourgeosie and its relentless violence?

Was "Dog" an insult?
Thanks...

Catarina was a girl, though, not an old woman.

I think the car should remain unexplained, so that each reader can take their own conclusions; but yes, it is a class-driven murder, the UDR being the landlords' main organisation.

And yes, "dog" is an insult.

When I feel again in the translating mode, I will post the following.

Luís Henrique [/b]
you dont need to translate it, i can probably read portuguese hah (i am mexican)

[OneBrickOneVoice]

The People's War is Invincible

The rebels leaned against the tree, the crumbled wall of a sweatshop
kneeled behind boulders on mountain tops,
crouched in fields of corns
he wiped his brow with his bandana,
she cleaned the wounds of her sisters and brothers
for as long as she could remember,
for as long as he could remember,
for as long as their ancestors could remember,
they had lived enchained, under the sole of a steel-toe boot,
like birds with broken wings,
and Larks locked in cages
they were tortured,
killed in the streets,
starved of life,
They worked their lives away
for scraps,
to live in the shantytowns of planet earth

She loaded her rifle...
he looks down his sights...

no more,
no longer will they take it...
They fight back from Palestine to the Phillipines,
from Nepal to Peru,
from India to Ireland,
the struggle lives on, the shining red star glows ever deeper

the people's war is invincible

[Bad Grrrl Agro]

Exploiting me for their own momentary pleasure
Something everyone's been doing forever
Nobody cares about how I am feeling
Just about me doing their bidding
They want to see
What they can get out of me
From that camera lens
And a series of akward positions
To former girlfriends and boyfriends
Who would abuse me to reach their ends
Emptiness
Loneliness
I'm a trophy boy
And when their done
They throw me away
After the fun

[RedAnarchist]

The sweet sounds that flowed in through the small window woke up him. He was confused as to what the sound was, and drawn towards it by the twin forces of curiosity and attraction, he stumbled out of bed, got dressed and walked out of the door into thge street, or at least what used to be a street. The once grey paving stones were now covered in death and violence, but nothing mattered more than the sound that entranced him, drew him away from the safety of his home and towards the old and derelict building which used to house the school. He climbed over the rusty fence and walked across the playground, still clearly marked with bright paint. He wandered towards the main door of the building and looked into the window into the dark hollow inside. As the door had not been locked for some time, he dared to enter and hard the sound even more clearly. It seemed to be coming from the hall, which was a huge room with few windows and was filled with old chairs and tables and some possesions the students had left behind. He concentrated on the corner from where the sound was coming from, his curiousity and attraction now burning a hole inside him as he approached. He clambered over a few tables and reached down to the floor, and picked up a device from which the sound was emanating. He examined the device and tried to recognise it, but the end came too quickly, and out from the shadows came the creature, snarling and growling. The man tried to run, but the device had started to melt into his hands, and it began to weigh him down. He desperately tried to attack the unwelcome creature with the device, but to no avail. It all went dark for him, and the sound stopped suddenly, sending the device crashing to the floor. As the sound started to warm up again, the creature dragged the corpse into the shadows and awaited his next meal.

[RedAnarchist]

Slowly created swirls of cloud
Floating across the dusky sky of the twilight
Silently I sleep beneath the fleet
Under the tree branch the slumber is set
And the moon shines down onto me
Warm reflections washing over

[Bad Grrrl Agro]

Banners of red
flying high
above my head
'til I die

for the man who can't make enough
to feed his family
for the woman held down
by patriarchy

for the workers in the factories of the city
for the workers in the fields out in the country

flag of red
above my head
bandera roja
bandera roja

[Saint Street Revolution]

So here we go again
Trying to prove that Punk's not dead
Everyone's a suspect, we're no longer friends
There's no community, there's no unity between us
Dividing scenes across the states

Your outlook's so outdated
Your outlook's...'77

Throw away your accents and your bondage jackets
You scream "ANARCHY!!" but won't begin to see
It not that we don't need a system
It's just that we need a better one
One that stands for you and me

Your outlook's so outdated
Your outlook's...'77!!!!


(Lyrics about how the Punk scene is the same shit, over and over. That "Fuck the System!!" stuff is really tiresome. I'm not talking bad about the Punk scene, it's just that it needs something innovative.)

[peaccenicked]

ASIDE and now for something completely different.

Intro: My latest poem, in free verse.



Fear of the Dark

Arising with the moon,
my nocturnal sleeplessness howls and cries,
from forgotten rages, in the labyrinth of time.

I am running in mazes,
to places neither here nor there,
Where can I be?

I search every hollow, each hidden grove,
while gently snoring or humming,
furiously wishful of wakening.

Why such tortured breathing?


The dark side is so empty of these questions,
for all is fear,
Beyond these filled up spaces is a dim light.

A small candle, I cannot curse the darkness anymore!

The crescent of the moon is like a glint in my eye, reflecting, shining at the world, smiling with love, at wonders, at last unveiled,
waiting for the sun to expose as plenty.

Bringing me to the taste of morning air
A new and sudden calm,
I see the tenderness of faces young and old,
Peace is now, our covering shawl,
and sleep redeems my night.

[marcocosm]

Originally posted by [email protected] 15, 2007 07:45 am
ASIDE and now for something completely different.

Intro: My latest poem, in free verse.



Fear of the Dark

Arising with the moon,
my nocturnal sleeplessness howls and cries,
from forgotten rages, in the labyrinth of time.

I am running in mazes,
to places neither here nor there,
Where can I be?

I search every hollow, each hidden grove,
while gently snoring or humming,
furiously wishful of wakening.

Why such tortured breathing?


The dark side is so empty of these questions,
for all is fear,
Beyond these filled up spaces is a dim light.

A small candle, I cannot curse the darkness anymore!

The crescent of the moon is like a glint in my eye, reflecting, shining at the world, smiling with love, at wonders, at last unveiled,
waiting for the sun to expose as plenty.

Bringing me to the taste of morning air
A new and sudden calm,
I see the tenderness of faces young and old,
Peace is now, our covering shawl,
and sleep redeems my night.
nice dude...im feelin "Fear of the Dark"

[Sir_No_Sir]

When the night comes,
we sill say goodbye to the sun,
but just for the night,
we will welcome the stars,
the trillions upon billions upon millions
of the french burning cars.

[RedAnarchist]

Tiredness in his eyes, he browsed wearily through the long list, scanning the thousands of words that were printed in bold red letters on a large piece of what appeared to be a scrap of old wallpaper. As he came across a word he knew, he sighed heavily and, using a pencil, crossed out the name with two neat lines and scribbled next to the word, "gone". These words were not just random, they were names. Names of people who had long ago vanished off the face of mortal Earth, whom had been killed by their own government. The man with the list had the job of finding these people, and as he stood in a cold forest at twilight, he had found yet another grave. His chocolate eyes looked sadly at the three skeletal remains that had been uncovered, then up to the sky where the clouds were purple and the sun was setting.

[Mujer Libre]

A poem I wrote after the piss-up of doom with my long lost South African friends. It's better read out loud, getting faster and losing it's rhythm (becoming prosier) as we get drunker.

Pantoum Gets Pissed
Five friends under the night sky
For the first time in five years.
“Fuck, this is surreal!” I cry
Over a round of beers.

For the first time in five years
Under drizzly Durban rain-
Over a round of beers
Our stories are too long.

We settle for the familiar,

the small…


Alcohol fills the gaps;
After juggling glass, lemon and salt
our words flow.
So-and-so is engaged.
Why’d they want to get married anyway? It’s a he… heteropatriarchal institution. I slur my approval. ‘Sif love is anything but free, by the way what are we doing for New Years? Beach party? Somewhere not too straight, cheap, no underage kids, no top 40... And definitely, definitely NO Auld Lang Syne.

Oh please fuck no- anything but that.

So we’re staying home then, ja? (Laughter)

(laughter dies down as a waiter hovers)
A round of flaming Lamborghini’s.
Glass after glass after glass clinks down,
Rows of multicoloured death.
Who’s paying for this?
Certainly not me, mumbles He-Who-Ordered-The-Drinks.

[RedAnarchist]

Thunder booms scoured the land
Their explosive nature of deadly light
The end of all days for this world
And the final act of this dystopic farce
The actors stagger drunkenly across the stage
Which is nowt but the last patch of dying grass
No applause or encore cries
Because this play has only one showing
Then the theatre gets burned down

[RedAnarchist]

My friend, myspace addict
A drug he takes in digital form
His list of friends and angled photographs
His interests, his blogs filled with woe
His custom page and comments galore
It has taken him hostage, but no ransom demanded
Its a sad fact but he is sucked in to the black hole
At least he has his comments galore

[RedAnarchist]

Your camera has gone on strike
And your computer fakes an headache
You'll stare at that screen for hours on end
Your videos suck and the comments don't lie
Your stunts are old and your voice is dull
You're a cliche, an Internet icon wannabe
But you'll never stop recording your life
You'll get the comments for your videos
And alls you'll be is a drama queen
Hogging the cliches on the YouTube screen

[RedAnarchist]

I left the old stories behind me years ago
Didn't want to know about those tales
Sad tales, they was, all full of gloomy
Deaths and fogs of despair
No, I burnt the lot in a bonfire at midnight
Two days cursed by them but many afterwards free
If you ever happen to come across them
Send them to the flames as quick as you can
Because they are a curse on all
And sad they are, they'll kill you from within.

[RedAnarchist]

Stillness awakens in the deepest corners
Shadowy cabals and mystical rituals
Conspiracies of old and new alike
Paranoia fills some veins and hearts
Hatred of the supposed powers
Facade slipping in the glocal eye
A great big colossal lie
No world government this is
Simply a tale spun by many weavers
The cities of faceless self
The oceans of lonely misery
No one is safe, not even the dead
Till the shadows are once more at rest

[RedAnarchist]

Bending back time so lacking in regret
Your daydream of the past
Does not predict the future
Quiet whispers from your lips as you float within
Beacon of the message history brings
Reformer of the tale of humanity
Your eyes deeper than ever before
Tell me fables and myths of the olden lands
Speak nothing to me of this decarying now
But close your eyes and glide
Short and sweet, a humans existence

[RedAnarchist]

The poem that sank to the bottom
Hopeless drowned within a sea of writers block
Fearing blank papers the poet wrote
Scribble down a lifeline for the sinking verse

Stormy seas cutting off the air supply
Choked words strained out of minds
This was the poem that sank
Resting on the sea bed

The fish cant read so the poem died
Bones laid scattered amongst the sands
And one day a wave brought them up
And on the beach, a poems corpse

The bones were put in a museum
Stared at and studied
No literature to be seen on this cadaver
Forever bones and never body

[RedAnarchist]

Fan flames that engulf you
Burn off the skin they make you wear
Reveal to us your true state, friend
So that we may gaze upon Nature's mistake

Your eyes like cold horror
Your lips from which only a shrill cry emerges
Satisfy our curiosity, friend
And make yourself wish you were dead

Our laughter should feel like blades to you
Mocking your very existence to the ground
Why not end it now, my friend
Before the dawn chorus awakens you?

[RedAnarchist]

Addicted, I cling
Swallowing each breath of the divine
Smelling the fragrant roses of this particular garden
Knowing the addict is jailed within the hedges
The sun, sunken underneath the purple skies,
The moons laughter haunts my nightmares
The end is soon but not the final act
No cure for the poison I take
The poison I seek
Because this addiction has no meaning
And this addiction is all me, you and the world

[RedAnarchist]

Does the fear chill your blood to ice?
Does it crawl across your veins, your arteries?
Does it burrow into your empty eyes softly?
Or does it sit upon your head in a mocking fashion?

Once a wise man said
Fear is nothing if you keep your mind clear
But foggy is your thoughts
And you cannot do what you promise

Once a wise woman said
Courage is the act of defining your memory
But amnesia sets in so quick nowadays
And your courage, washed away

Once you read an ancient book
Which told of myths of long gone times
Fool to believe in those stories you were
Now find yourself trapped in no mans land

Your mouth acknowledged the wise counsel
But your ears were the more deficient
Foolishly stumbling, you feel
And into a dark puddle you drown forever

[RedAnarchist]

Burning is the state
The halls of power full of chickens
In danger of losing their heads
Although they act like that anyway
The streets are full of the people
The people who make the music
Rhythm of the revolutionary days
Under jet and scarlet banners we march
As the monarchs scatter like rats
As the politicians hide like mice
Spirits of revolutionary yesteryears come alive
And fill us with the poetry of the masses
Destroy these laws, these hierarchies
Use churches to house the homeless
Use the palaces as hospitals for the sick
Turn what was obscene into the aesthetically good
Convert the nation into a free society
Together we will make music as Parliament burns
And our songs will drown out the dying queens final shriek

[RedAnarchist]

Anarchism
Is the solution
That capitalists
fear so much
They try to fool
They try to rule
But we know
That the people
The people desire freedom
And it wont come
By petty reform
We reject the wallpaper
The wall is crumbling
Tear down the house
And lets build
Build a new society
Anarchism

[RedAnarchist]

Muse is missing
No John or Jane
This is no missing persons
This is the block of creative thought
My poems suffer from the loss of ideas
My words don't become clear
I search whilst lying down,
Imagining a vanished roof
The walls close in and out
Breathing like a chased animal
No hunter going to kill them though
Because muse has no more bullets

[RedAnarchist]

This is not a wood,
Nor a majestic forest,
It is desolate.

[Knight of Cydonia]

No more !
Your twisted visions are driving me crazy
Now let me be
I've choose to be one of thee

[Bilan]

Beware: Not political.



This is the story of the lonely bunny.

Once, in a time before time, when the rives flowed down, following the rays of the sun toward the ocean, there was a young rabbit named Herbert.
Herbert was the sweetest, kindest rabbit in his known region. He spoke truth, but truth dipped in sugar, so that the truth, though being told, would always come down like snow flakes, instead of like falling rocks from a cliff.
He went on journeys from his cosy little cottage, which was below the tallest tree, beneath the hills, upto the highest mountain, where there were icy poles hanging from the branches of trees.
On one of his adventures, he discovered foot prints, much like his in shape, but smaller. He followed the footsteps, whilst collecting icy poles on his journey.
Then he exploded into tears, as his eyes first gazed upon the creator of his journey; the one who lay the footprints in the snow.
It was the cutest, most adorable bunny he'd ever layed his eyes upon. Her hair, fluffy and white, and her eyes the brightest of blues, large and glowing like a full moon.
They exchanged glances and giggles (yes rabbits can giggle) as they froliced about, with the trees and the sky peering down on them.
He heard a noise from deep within the forest, and turned to try to discover what it was, but he saw nothing, as he looked back, she had disappeared.
Confused and smitten(ed?) he ran all the way home to try and come to terms with what he had just seen.
The words from the cave of desire racing around his head, saying...
"Dear lady (of course, the thought bunny), I am a pirate longing for port. Tomorrow, a solider at war. Today, a pirate lost among trees, aground. The ship of desire unfolds its sails."
He returned to his home, and tried to rest, but the thoughts raced around his head like they were being chased.

But he dreamed! He lay on his (adorable) little bed, captivated by her glowing eyes that shined like a beacon through the forest.
His whiskers wiggled with excitement at the thought of seeing her once more.
He jumped like he had just been struck by lightening and raced back up the hill - stopping only to pluck the prettiest flower he could find from the garden up the hill.
He reached the top, where they he had first seen her.
But there was nothing.
The sky looked down on him, whilst the trees swallowed him deeper as he searched for her.
But there was nothing. Not a print, not a thing. She was gone.
The wind howled as he made his way back toward his home, dragging his feet and sobbing.
He reached the edge of the forest, where he could see for miles; he could see the hills as they rolled so perfectly before him...And he began to stroll slowly back home, down the hill.
A faint sound in the distance caught his attention.
It was the same sound he had heard when he lost her.
He turned back, and raced up the hill to the forest and followed the sound to...

...a light deep inside the forest. He was drawn to it immediately. The endless possibilities of what was to be found when he reached the light.
He ran, deeper, and deeper into the forest. The light grew, until it became apparent to what it was. He stopped on a hill where the trees became less dense and looked over. He was at the peak.
It was the sun rising from behind the mountains far, far away, bringing light to the forests once more.
Herbert sighed, as he looked over the hills.
He sat down on a rock and watched it as it rose.
Something rested up next to him.
He looked to his right...it was her.

[RedAnarchist]

A war is going on today
And all the nation is armed
The bullets fly past the schools
The libraries, the houses and the shacks
Today we lost a generation
Tomorrows another day, another million
The guns fire and the missles strike
The tanks crwal and the ships stalk
A war is going on today
They have forgotten the joy of peace

[Pirate Utopian]

Junkies walking down the street
Staring down at their feet
They got some dollars and some dimes
To enter the crackhouse they all stand in line

The pusherman gives them their drug
The one that makes them oblivious and smug
The one that to them makes sense in all context
The one for a superiority complex

And every week and certain holidays
The junkies go inside and pay
For a serious bag of minddecay
The slaves for the crackhouse of sunday

[RedAnarchist]

Scented trunks of dead oak trees
Black leaves rot at their feet
Bones bloom like roses in their garden
The air,musty and green with disease
Sounds of wailing ancients drowning
Swimmers in the quicksand die so fast
The tongues of men are vines in this jungle
And their eyes are frogspawn in toxic ponds

[Knight of Cydonia]

All is lost.....
My dignity, my pride, my soul
but i'll always fight
Fight for you my dear labour friends
Fight to repeat the glory of May and October
Fight !!!
Fight to overthrow the giant
that call them self capitalism

[RedAnarchist]

(inspired by Maya's custom title)

Neon gods worshipped
Skies of black become orange
Orgasmic flames of luminescence
Seek out the darkness that exists no more
You'll go mad with loss
Cities drown, eyes murdered
Drawn to the lights
You sink into them, grasp onto them
The prayer is said in musical tones
Enter the temple and worship
Until dawn, you are a neon saint

[RedAnarchist]

From the depths of the world born,
The created thought of the creative minds
The end of the world planned by these
The end of the world is planned by us
Smoke filled Earth, abused
Dug huge holes to get the shiny rocks
Blew each other up to praise a flag
Shot fellow humans to worship a god
Killed to satisy the King
Scars tell little of the story
Ending our violent divisions
Requires the demolition of the ideas
Follow no human, seek out no master
Failure to praise the flag means freedom.

[RedAnarchist]

Sunlight washes over into my sight
Gentle fingers of white floating past
Orange and gold rain falls from the trees
Leaping to the soil beneath in a final dramatic act
They lay there cold
Released from their mother tree and dead
The autumn massacre is here once more
And the trees are weeping onto the corpses.

[Mujer Libre]

The idea of autumn being a massacre is really good- original and disconcerting. I like very much. :)

[RedAnarchist]

Originally posted by Mujer [email protected] 31, 2007 07:53 am
The idea of autumn being a massacre is really good- original and disconcerting. I like very much. :)
Thanks. Theres a lot of trees around here, so it was inevitable that they would feature in a poem about autumn. :)

[RedAnarchist]

Their dusky eyes followed each other
Even as the world close in around them, they smiled
The words they spoke were whispered love songs
The parting would be bittersweet
The memories warm and cold
As they went from one another they called out
But only the lonely breeze heard.

[RedAnarchist]

Ten thousand million stars shone on the night
Hours of fear they kept hidden away
The sky bullied the ground with no mercy
The town swept away by the tears of clouds
The rivers roared and slashed at the houses
The winds howled and tore down the trees
The endless seige killed so many
And noone came to help them in the morning

[RedAnarchist]

Five points for five lands
Five ends for five fingers
A symbol of the masses
A rallying call for the working classes
The Red Star in all its proletarian glory

Black for moruning,
Lost martyrs and executed heroes
Red for bleeding
Red for the everlasting cause
Red and black flags galore

Sweet scent rises to my delight
Beautiful red in lush gardens
Growing like our movement
Bloming like our aspirations
The red rose is our socialist sun

[RedAnarchist]

The everlasting sense of liberty,
The joyous vitality of the revolution,
Our world is won for the people within
Egalitarian breezes whistleby
Down fall the once mighty oaks of rulers
Blown down by the winds of change

Flags of nations cease to fly
Borders erased overnight
Out of our boxes we come
A world to live, a world to love
Free to be human forevermore
And free to exist as if we were immortal.

[RedAnarchist]

The blended colours flow through my eyes
A busy mind speeds around tirelessly
Shades of all conceivable hues
Delight my sight with their flight
Rushing past, they leave a jet of beauty
Tearing the air apart smoothly they go by.

[RedAnarchist]

Why is noone else posting in this thread? I'm sure we have a load of great writers on this forum. :)

[RedAnarchist]

The gentle music warms my eyes
The colours of sound float past me in chaos
The world becomes dizzy and floats to the ground
Skies become purple rivers, trees become roses
The houses fall and in their place a castle
Within no king resides but the people themselves
The grass becomes lush once again
And the songs of revolution are the air

[RedAnarchist]

Lifeless towns stick out in the mist
No sunlight kisses their bony cheeks
The roads are extinct and the houses bare
The trees are dead and the crops long gone
Shattered lives on the pavement beg
But the passersby are just as poor
This tragedy of a million homes
The famine of a billion hearts
The eternal death and the unwanted life
In these lifeless towns,
Sticking out of the mist.

[RedAnarchist]

Art will be our resistance
Poetic verses daubed with blood
Words we speak will free us
So let the people breathe with fire
We will be the nightmare of the rulers
Darkening even the deepest parts of their minds
Masses march through streets
Drowning their ideas under our feet.

[peaccenicked]

An ode against loss

In her azure eyes I saw the universe pass
another girl another lass.
The world at once was asking how,
This moment gone, this moment now

Where on this globe are the gods of love,
neither seen below nor above?
Cupid with his unbent bow
Where are the seeds he has to sow?

Every pitch internalized,
Romantic dreams are too down-sized
to breathe another day
if only to hold a little sway

For here I shake and truly tremble
What heroic stance can I resemble
Has all been done and said so fairly ?
Was I born too late perhaps somewhat early?

Gone are rebels that I admire,
So full of passion and Promethean fire
A reference point in time and space
Yet no one dares to tie their lace

Surely now we must realise
that there is reason to despise
the world of commerce and of war.
That does not have a single care

And that life itself may pass us by,
if we dont make some hue and cry
about the injustice of the dead,
once was not our banner red.

[RedAnarchist]

Endless bombs fly down on to me
Explosions of the words erupt
The verse attacks the mind
Making me emphasise with the sentence
A message in bullet form
Rips through the skin
This is the deadly message of millions
Violent scenes cover the paper
And the words bleed on the lines

Verses of the fatal persuasion
Entrance me, their bittersweet taste
Wash over my eyes with their water
The end of the poem is a ceasefire
And the armistice is the final act.

[Orange Juche]

I wrote a poem, about class war (as if it were happening) Just fascinated to see what you all think.


Révolte

Juncture.

so much time

infinate ages given to dream

no time to prepare

blood, horrified and tranquil anew

to rain upon an earth discontent.



O so very ill in these times

so tired and hungry

so discontent in cruel slumber

where all seems hopeless.



The beating drum of war

not familiar as it once were

the spring breaking forth

where new pronounces now



Where all was once solitary

in current, leagued in impassioned fury

the atonement for travail



Waited, waking, and aware

all of history

has called the world to arms.

[peaccenicked]

Options on a table


Last night I had the nightmare of nuclear strike again,
It began no worse than usual with the Blairites saying "amen''
The 'conscience' of our nation was whispering at the church
As millions as Iranians were left out on the lurch



As five million more orphans are counted in Iraq
There's all options on the table with a nuclear attack
And it does not really matter which president they select.
For each favoured canditate is a war crimimal elect.



There is hope from the army,who see this madness roar
With thousands of them dying you think they 'd see the score.
Another thing that might do is the Chinese veto,
And these economic tigers jumping through the air.
Maybe the US wont face the Russian "bear"



What has become of the peace movement
Why does it seem so still?
Is there a reason why our leaders look so ill?

NB with the notable exceptions of Cindy Sheenan and Rose Gentle with applause to Webster Tarpley for seeing the significance of the 9/11 movement.

[Jimmie Higgins]

In a time before anyone could ever even imagine a McDonalds, for various reasons, and even before European people knew that there was another hemisphere full of people for them to kill, there was a kingdom, in the continent of Europea. Furthermore, as was the custom with kingdoms, there was a king. He had no name. He used to have a name but he forbade people to speak it. People just called him King. Sometimes other things. Like Majesty, or Highness, or Brave Ruler, or His Royal Highness, or Virtuous Giver of Candles (though he only rarely passed them out). And sometimes, um, Kingster. And sometimes other things. Behind his back. They passed notes. Back and forth. Laughing in celebration of their cleverness in their ability to rhyme things with Highness and Virtuous. Laughing with finger-nail smiles. And plotting. Laughing. Always scheme-making. They wrung their hands every chance they got.
“What are their names?” King demanded.
“Delpitson and Hanggly, Your Highness,” the Chief Royal Guardsman responded.
“Why must they continuously mash their hands together?”
“Perhaps they are hungry, My Candle-giver?”
“Methinks it to be a rash of some kind.”
“I’ll have them cured, My Forgiving Hand-lobber”
With that, Delpitson and Hanggly lost their hands in a large ceremony. It was largest ceremony ever bestowed on them and they would have enjoyed all the attention if their hands weren’t being chopped off.

Being two of the largest landowners in the realm, Delpitson and Hanggly didn’t really need their hands much to maintain their livelihoods, but their absence did hinder their ability to fully enjoy their scheming. Also masturbation was out of the question.

[peaccenicked]

MY SMALLEST BOAST


I am Celtic and shameless
as though I was the very hound of CuCulain
as though I dug the grave that saw the bones of FInn Mac Cumhail
To tell you what

I' d be better thinking of yon older times
when I drank two lakes of wine
(you say only two lakes)
I ate every goat and tiny mouse
between John O Groats and Clear Island
on just one Sunday

Now I stand here
filling gaped mouths
with tales of great adventures
making muse and great delight
of detail small but bountiful

I 'll tell you this
your heathen shylock ways are gone forever
your dismal salt of the earth will taste like sugar
You have got no chance at all

So away with your nuclear bombs
and precise missiles
No force on earth
is worth my spit

Paul Anderson august 2000
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[RedAnarchist]

Smashed window on the floor
Blood trickles down to the road
Last breaths are gasped
Eyes close and never open once
Siren blares in the distance
Flames lick dead flesh like an ice cream
Smoke rises gently to the skies.

[RedAnarchist]

Names of the dead heroes stick to tongues
Their bones long since buried deep
The cult of the martyr
The everlasting belief in a person
Winds its way around all the people
Myths and legends fill the air

Mystic stories and fervent belief
Fuel the flames of the saga
Relics of the dead brought to life
Given powers of immortality
Long reign as icon

The books written about the heroic
The songs and the verses
Written with a sigh of feeling
The clingy stick to the legend
Unaware of their own self

The heroes inspired a generation
But one would not bow
Outcast he became
Hero status he dreamt of
Because he was aware

[RedAnarchist]

I am not your long lost memories
I am not the friend of years gone by
I am not the love of your life or mine
I lie deep within your mind

I do not wish you harm
I do not poison your blood
I do not cause the nightmare
I care too much for you

I do not want to see you die
I do not want to see you mourn
I do not want to lay fresh flowers
I want to be reminded by your smile

I am your future memory
I am the true friend yet to come
I am the one for you
I will be more than a daydream

[RedAnarchist]

Echoed whispers flee down the alleyways
Abandoned vehicles, lights on
Radios blaring old love songs
Noone there to love or lust for

Disguised figures of unknown lives
Auras of power and fame
Facades yet to fall
Personalities for the newspaper

Screens with colours of the world
Voices, images, lyrics and eternal stories
The text of the story fills emotions
The lyrics of the song make you curious

[peaccenicked]

My gun is broken and unhanded.
I taste the dirt on the ground.
My smile no longer demanded.
My songs never to be sung

Moments of madness,
Screaming with the tortured
I want to be a virgin to sadness
but I am completely undone.

All I have left is my love.
Need I kiss your lips
to show this life
is worth the bullet in my guts

Is my whisper a shout?
Do I dream to disturb this nightmare?
Is the breathing we share
in earshot of the deaf?

I suppose an inner eye
The building of centuries of passion.
The revolution.
A mere crescendo
Smoke to be removed

[OrientalHado]

Love to know you better.



I look at you with cross-eyes.
Whats your story?
Whats your life?
You have a sister,
brother maybe?
A coffee perhaps?
A tea for my lady.
Or maybe gin
and beer too.
San miguel?
London dry gin?
Whats with you today,
looking so down?
Want to talk, drink,
eat about it.
A kiss?
Hug?
Poem?
Or simply gazing at the stars
with open eyes,
wondering how life has declined,
passed by.
Never mind.
We can just daydream without a care,
talk of our fate
times of old and new.
Drink to the future,
dance to the past,
life is a fire,
that we should dance too.

[Knight of Cydonia]

O Love, thy name has now
dwell deep within my heart
thou beauty haunted me
in every dreams i had
even last night.........

[RedAnarchist]

*bump*

Can someone has has never contributed to this thread have a go? I would love to see some of your poems.:)

And Maya, that poem is great:)

[RedAnarchist]

Falling swiftly into the soils
Swollen banks of weeping streams
Trees crash heavily
Skies curse and scowl
Houses torn down
Boats on the waves die
Songs of joy cut short
Tropical hellhole
Natural paradise
Earth shakes
Skies wail.

[RedAnarchist]

Male, Female, Other
Black, White, Asian
Gay, Straight, Bisexual
A time to tick the boxes
A time to write in boxes
A time for walls and windows
Doors and ceilings not so high
Pigeon hole your heart and mind
Develop a sense of convention
The skin you have
It gives you a box
The sex you have
It gives you a box
The parts you have
It gives you a box
Don't dare step out
We have no other boxes

[RedAnarchist]

Float above the mountains
And cause the avalanches
Skid across the oceans
And cause the floods
Smash your way into a forest
And cause the fire
In your path, remove it
In your way, destroy it
Nature lynched
Nature buried
Nature mourned.

[RedAnarchist]

Drifting by me you go
As the hours turn into weeks
I stand still there
Pining for you
Hoping to feel some loved emotion
I don't know where you need to go
And I don't know why
But always drift by me
And I'll always hope for you.

[RedAnarchist]

They built a border today
Steel and blood, wood and death
Surrounding the nations like prisoners
Carving up Earth into
Playgrounds for the rich
They built a border today
Said to use just one tongue
Only one culture to live
And one race under the nations sky
Which was not full of clouds of course
They built a border today
And raised a flag for us
Apparently its representative
Yet I know of no vote
No decision made by the people
They built a border today
We have laws and rules
These rules control the cages
And these laws smother the people
They built a border today
But we soon tore it down
They threatened us with guns and bombs
But it was they who gave up first.

[RedAnarchist]

The above poem translated into Esperanto -

Ili konstruad est samlima kun hodiaŭ
Hard kaj sango,
Ŭood kaj morto
Ĉirkaŭig la nations kiel kaptitoj
Distranĉ pliiĝ
Teron interesiĝ pri
Playgrounds por la riĉa
Ili konstruad est samlima kun hodiaŭ
Dir inf. uz nur unu lingvo nur unu kulturo inf viv
Kaj unu vetkur sub la nations ĉielo
Kiu ne estis satiĝ de clouds kompreneble
Ili konstruad est samlima kun hodiaŭ
Kaj altig malvigliĝ por ni
Ŝajne sian reprezentanto
Tamen laŭ mia scio, estas neniu ajn voĉdone elekt
Neniuj decido farita de la homoj
Ili konstruad est samlima kun hodiaŭ
Kiujn ni ricev leĝoj kaj rules
Ĉi tiuj rules regad la cages
Kaj ĉi tiuj leĝoj sufok la homoj
Ili konstruad est samlima kun hodiaŭ
Sed kiujn ni baldaŭ ŝiris ĝin glut
Ili threatened us kun guns kaj bombs
Sed estis ili kiujn forlasis unuan.

[*mac_capital*]

they say that we are free
but the poor do not have economic democracy
the money only flows one way
and the people are content to pay and pay

but what are we suppose to do
the many are controlled by the few
the rich get rich the poor stay poor
raping the peoples profits like we're a whore

they are are stealing the peoples profit
and tell us that we can't stop it
but today is the day that we prevail
because the quest for justice can never fail

but the future starts with you
the future is shaped by everything you do
so don't just sit back
now is the time to attack

it is time to raise your voice
because the politicians are a limited choice
you must make a stance
and recognize now is the chance

were do we go from here
when nobody does truly hear
"socialism" the word capitalists fear

[RedAnarchist]

The waters end abruptly
Skies fall onto the faraway border
Of the kingdom of the ocean
Sun dies, sinks below
Like a giant fish
Moon lives, rises high
Like a giant bird
Things go dark, and the sky
Sets itself on fire
Candles around the silver bonfire
And purple clouds snuff them out

[Awful Reality]

The Storm
A storm is nearing
Energy building in the heavens
A breeze of silence echoes over hill and dale
The world stops, and waits

The hum of thought stops the mind from the thinking
The world takes heed but we are oblivious
The warning signs are ignored but the mind ticks on
It has arrived

The journey begins
Shadows devour light
Silence devours sound
The sky devours the Earth

Into an abyss
We travel further down
Fire, brimstone are the myths true?
The illusion passes and we ride on

Ride on the sky
Straddle the rearing beast
Take hold the reigns and spur the demon on
Ride with giants, ride on, ride on, ride on

The unknown calls
The riders veer left, led by a sound unheard
They ride on the backs of instinct
They can smell it, they have reached the unknown

Crying my heart out, emoboy.

Beneath the smokestack and the sun-drenched glass
A soft clank
As the levers are pulled
Vying desperately for one last moment of glory
Oiled-
Greased-
A white rag

A single drop of blood
Cools the hot steel
Apart from the
Echoes
Resonating...
Throughout the factory
Where empty, forgotten hopes of a sorrowful dream
Lie in wait, whispering of their eternal past.

There's my poem about Capitalism.

[Awful Reality]

Shell fragments on the Eastern front
Years ago
Without warning
Buried.

Mortar fire, beneath the pillbox-ridden mountain
Bombing raids on the bunker below.

Silos open
Cities fall- pieces on a chessboard.
Nonchalant
They do not cry but in bullets.

Smokescreens
Mask the horror that lurks
Behind the uniform,
Inside the grenade.

Twilight suspended by the burning towns
Nightfall, the idyllic moment
Washed red in blood

Of a young man, who has seen these fates
But not what is to come
An unknown soldier-
Buried before he died.

[Awful Reality]

What is a verse?

Does it speak an unknown tale?
Does it moan, or does it wail?
Does it lie beneath the ocean, cool
Looking for a sail?

Is perhaps, a hurricane?
A tiger's claw, a lion's mane?
Or maybe it's to ascertain
All the things above.

When spoken does it ring so loud?
Does it fall from above in the rain?
When whispered, though hiding, is it proud?
Or does it cry out in pain?

Maybe someday it will hear
Of all the things it told so clear
Not alive, but shedding tears
In the autumn wind.

But now it is a written word
Perhaps unnoticed
Perhaps heard
And still, though it does not divert
It isn't anything.

[Awful Reality]

Naught but leaves
As they fall
Make a sound
As the September wind whistles through the city blocks

The doors are closed
The schools are empty of children
As the mothers and the fathers descend from the skyscrapers
suitcases and Purses
In hand as they search for their keys

The factories and offices have closed
The storekeepers glance at the clocks
As the shift draws to a close

The stadiums have long since emptied
Dejected and jubilant spectators left for the larger field of their daily lives

A man walks through a lonesome park
As he did in his childhood
A book replacing the football in his arm
As he crosses the field
His shattered dreams of glory left in the dust each day of his life

Not a word is spoken
This fall evening
But honking cars and rustling leaves
Give eulogies of their own.

Somewhere else sirens are blaring
Somewhere soldiers are bleeding in trenches
Somewhere children are screaming for help

Somewhere else lovers tryst
Somewhere champagne is being drank
Somewhere money is counted

Somewhere a fire engulfs a house
Somewhere an earthquake shatters homes
And somewhere children are being born
Their first sense the screams of their mothers

But as the summer ends and the twilight falls
A new life begins
Drawn out of an old hope
Somewhere.

[Awful Reality]

I used to dream of war and glory
I used to dream of love and peace
I used to dream of wealth and power

What good are you know?
Thrown from the precipice?
You say you land on your feet
But why?

Why don't you shatter like glass?
Why don't you pour like water?
Why don't you warp like wood
Or stay firm like steel?

Why do you just wait?
Untouched, stolid?
It stood you on the edge
But it will never bring you up again

Now you come crying
Now you scream in pain
Did you not see those before you?
Or were you apathetic to their cries?

So question me, interrogate me
What is it that you gain?
A tear or a confession
Compunction and remorse?

Why are you not apathetic?
Why do their troubles
Trouble you?
For at least now I can say
That I once stood above

I have fallen, but have you risen?

At least when I fall I can say
That I brought others up with me
And only I have fallen

[Awful Reality]

Five poems in one morning!

This thread should be way more active than it is. It's excellent.

[RedAnarchist]

Strange myths cloud my mind
Telling me the stories better left buried
Ghosts of long gone ideas
Spirits of archaic tongues
They speak in to my subconciousness
I resist their influence
I tear apart their books and verse
Still I sit quietly as they rush around my eyes
Woindering where did all their sanity go?

[RedAnarchist]

Stand near the window
Close to the streets below
Describe the scenes to me
Describe our victory, our final battle
Are the people free, or falling into new chains?
Are they happy, or disgusted, horrified?
Is this no longer a country
But a land with no king?
Satisfy my need for these events
Close to the window where you
Look down with a smile
At the streets where the people are
Where the people are free

[rsinger09]

I wrote this when I was feeling pissed off about technology. I'm not sure if I like it or not.

A generation stuck in a virtual slump
Addicted to the screen
Stumbling on an incessant trajectory
We subscribe to social networking sites
Where shamelessly we advertise our lives
On liquid - crystal displays
And the cool hunters gorge away
Exploiting our listed interests, activities, and dreams
They got us stuck in UHDV
Can’t stop this callous orbit-
around all things written in cryptography
because-
We’ve become so numb to feelings
That even laughter has evolved, into nothing more than a few letters flashing on the screen
No don’t be sad
And don’t you dare cry-
Or call them out
You remember how they
invaded every space?
Repressing your precious childhood
In front of your blood-shot eyes
But we could only stand by
and wait
trapped in a passive defeat
as they replaced beloved rocks and trees with VDT‘s
You muffled your screams into podcasts that boast the century
Children of the 90’s rise up and unite!
Or have we forgotten how to hold hands?
Wrap your fingers in mine-
And strive to reclaim what this all means

[Awful Reality]

When I wake up
What will the world be?
Will it hail bullets?
Or will there be nothing?
Will I stand in the darkness of the shadows
Of a world left behind?
Will the children prance and laugh in the streets?
Or will the buildings lay in ash and fire?

Will the hope of a new world
Ring like the church-bells
On an late August night?
Will we celebrate
But ignore the fallen beside us
The loved ones we lost, the horror we saw?

All these may happen
And when I wake up
It will be the same

(That's about the early 18th century, specifically France)

[RedAnarchist]

Endless voices speak
Their language unknown,
Their emotions unfelt
Look in their eyes but see death
Talk to them, but they hear nothing
Just the sound of their infinite speech
Just the sound of their tongue
Their teeth ground down to tiny white freckles
Their tongue bright red and dusty
Their mouth cracks until they have millions of lips
And yet they still talk forevermore

[RedAnarchist]

Rule by force or by birth
Rule by ballot or by bullet
Its all out of date and out of favour
Crumble into dust, archaic sceptre
Blown away by the breeze
And we'll not replace you
But we'll never miss you.

[RedAnarchist]

Anger benefits your cause
Shaved head, emotionless lips
Nothing there
Nothing here
Nothing ever
Closed eyes and the ghost smiles
Blueprints for the invasion force
Nothingness exists
Symbol in blue oceans with purple skies and pink clouds
A rose, for your revolution is dead
Punching the skies to illustrate our need for change
Tropical creature shows off his colours
Nothing to see, nothing to live
Under water, the eyes stare
Change found at the end of a million spliffs
Nothingness
Red orchids bloom around us all
This machine of man
Cultural import, animated translation
Inspired only by the death of everything
Mexican worker, inspire your fellow man
In the darkness, a symbol of dreams awakens
Painting pictures for your words
Are you there, invisible friend?
I see noone
Loop your tongue, silent red
Lazy are the people who call today tomorrow
No words to describe it
No sounds to hear it
Armies of the people, soldiers of the red star.

[RedAnarchist]

Sweetly smells in air supply
Fragrant lyrics float upwards
Row after row of luminous bloom
And the bees are flocking
Dusky petals and verdant pipes
Sinewy trunks and fleshy shoots
Forest of illuminated nostril fodder
Entrances my senses

[RedAnarchist]

Psychedelic leaves
Voices unheard by consenting ears
Nowhere is there existence anymore
Pictures are banned in this bleak place
May as well be blind in this land of grey
Revolutionary girl, symbol on her chest
Blankness stares back at you
Nothingness screams into your sore ear
Latin union, red with proletarian anger and aspiration
King of this realm, Grey
Pencils in black, like a lamp of wood
Bleakly I stared into the end
And to my concern
Saw not the end, but confusion
Star in the sky at night, shines red
Confusion seeks me out
Army of the people, violence in hand
Guerilla radio blaring out the idea
Black revolutionary, human revolution
So no illustrated welcome on my return?
Picture of politics, in black and white
Picture of nothing, all in grey
Individual self, collective goals
Yellow friend not impressed
I cling to the grey, try to wipe it out
But layers of it remain in my fingers
Joyous pose of the fat cartoon
The layers of grey blow into my eyes
Ursine smiles, spectacle lenses
I end the verse with nothing

[eXacto]

This one ain't mine , it's from Hugo Claus , a Belgian artgenius , who recently passed away. He was one of the biggest, if not the biggest Belgian artist. This is one of my personal favorites that i found on the internet translated.

WHAT TO SPEAK ABOUT
What to speak about tonight? And preach
in a land we recognise, tolerate,
seldom forget.
That country with its droll beginnings,
its clammy climate, its sapless stories
about the old days,
its inhabitants, greedy till their final fall
among the cauliflowers.
They keep on multiplying
in a paradise of their own imagining,
hankering for happiness, shivering, mouths full of porridge.
Just as in nature
which depilates our puny hills,
scorches our pastures, poisons our air,
the guileless cows graze on.

Speak about the writings of this land,
printed matter full of question marks
on the patient paper
that time and again is shocked by its history
and so resorts to concealing shorthand.
Speak about the curtains
that people draw around themselves.
But still we hear them, the stinking
primates that stalk each other in rooms.
Just as in nature
the hibiscus gives off no scent,
that the innocent cows do, becoming bogged
in the piss-logged earth.

Speak in that land of glittering grass
in which man,
intemperate worm, dreaming carcass,
dwells among the corpses which dead as they are
remain obedient to our memory.
Just as our nature expects a single,
simple miracle that one day will finally
explain what we were,
not only this remote spectacle
thrown together by time.

Speak about that time which, they said,
would mark as a brand and palimpsest?
We lived in an aged of using
and being usable.
What defence against such?
What festive arse-feathers?
What cellar song? Perhaps.
Say it. Perhaps.
A few swift scratches in slate
and that’s the outline of your love.
Fingerprints in the clay are her hips.
Phonemes of joy sometimes sounded
if she, when she, called you like a cat.

Speaking about her presence
wakens the blue hour of twilight.
Just as in nature
the merciless, glassy, blue azure
of our planet seen from Apollo.

And though from simply speaking
your festive cap begins to feel heavy
and the lifeline in your palm
starts festering
still, notwithstanding, nevertheless
honour the flowering
of the shadows that inhabit us,
the shadows begging for consolation.
And still stroke her shoulder blade.
Like the back of a hunchback
Still hankering for a ferocious happiness.

[RedAnarchist]

This one ain't mine , it's from Hugo Claus , a Belgian artgenius , who recently passed away. He was one of the biggest, if not the biggest Belgian artist. This is one of my personal favorites that i found on the internet translated.

WHAT TO SPEAK ABOUT
What to speak about tonight? And preach
in a land we recognise, tolerate,
seldom forget.
That country with its droll beginnings,
its clammy climate, its sapless stories
about the old days,
its inhabitants, greedy till their final fall
among the cauliflowers.
They keep on multiplying
in a paradise of their own imagining,
hankering for happiness, shivering, mouths full of porridge.
Just as in nature
which depilates our puny hills,
scorches our pastures, poisons our air,
the guileless cows graze on.

Speak about the writings of this land,
printed matter full of question marks
on the patient paper
that time and again is shocked by its history
and so resorts to concealing shorthand.
Speak about the curtains
that people draw around themselves.
But still we hear them, the stinking
primates that stalk each other in rooms.
Just as in nature
the hibiscus gives off no scent,
that the innocent cows do, becoming bogged
in the piss-logged earth.

Speak in that land of glittering grass
in which man,
intemperate worm, dreaming carcass,
dwells among the corpses which dead as they are
remain obedient to our memory.
Just as our nature expects a single,
simple miracle that one day will finally
explain what we were,
not only this remote spectacle
thrown together by time.

Speak about that time which, they said,
would mark as a brand and palimpsest?
We lived in an aged of using
and being usable.
What defence against such?
What festive arse-feathers?
What cellar song? Perhaps.
Say it. Perhaps.
A few swift scratches in slate
and that’s the outline of your love.
Fingerprints in the clay are her hips.
Phonemes of joy sometimes sounded
if she, when she, called you like a cat.

Speaking about her presence
wakens the blue hour of twilight.
Just as in nature
the merciless, glassy, blue azure
of our planet seen from Apollo.

And though from simply speaking
your festive cap begins to feel heavy
and the lifeline in your palm
starts festering
still, notwithstanding, nevertheless
honour the flowering
of the shadows that inhabit us,
the shadows begging for consolation.
And still stroke her shoulder blade.
Like the back of a hunchback
Still hankering for a ferocious happiness.

What a beautiful poem.:)

[eXacto]

Are the poems you posted written by yourself Red Anarchist? I like 'em! And the poem of Hugo Claus is even much better in Dutsch , the words fit in better , and he plays with them , this goes a bit lost in translation.

[RedAnarchist]

Are the poems you posted written by yourself Red Anarchist? I like 'em!

Yes, and thanks:)

[RedAnarchist]

Softly the blue haze lifted from the fields
The fire had died, its corpse melted onto the grass
Smoke still sang to the skies
Twigs still flickered like used candles
Dead creatures slept on ashes
Trees devoid of leaves stood burnt
Petrol oxygen lit up lungs
Wooden food eaten and now vomit
As the blaze passed
Its mark written on grass blades
Turning black to spite the soil
And the dandelions fainted
Their sunshine extinguished.

[RedAnarchist]

One man came back from Iraq today
Encased in wood, devoid of blood
One widow mourns today
Childhood sweethearts, her heart is broke

One woman came back from Afghanistan today
In a coffin, blown to bits
One man weeps today
Mother of his child, spouse of the grave

One man came back from the wars today
Dead he lies, young he remains
His boyfriend grieves for him
Violence breeds despair and sorrow

One leader spoke in London today
Grinning, his plan succeeding
One leader laughs today
Warped vision of world hegemony

[RedAnarchist]

In the year of our War
Two Thousand Nought Three
Leaders plotted a dreadful act
An illegal conspiracy

The plan was to steal Iraq
And use it for their own gain
The evidence that they all did lack
Made up, sexed up, fucked up

[RedAnarchist]

Violent storms crush them to bone and flesh
Terrible bullets scar their hearts
Puppets in uniform armed to the teeth
And the leaders are the ones in control

Ships crawl around the coast
Tanks flatten the barren earth
Boots march down the streets
And the skies is filled with metal vultures

[RedAnarchist]

Our gaze will touch the stars of night
A daydream in the dusky hours
Smiling as we celebrate the sky
Together as we are
The moon lights up our faces
And the stars warm our eyes
Under the purple sea we swim

[RedAnarchist]

Blackest hole in the final act
Death is the answer to the eternal question
Send no saints to weep over graves
Time stands still for them always

[RedAnarchist]

Green hills roll
Blue glittering snakes
Yellow coasts and high cliffs
Waves of ocean stab the beaches
Sunshine melts the summer
Sweat drips to concrete
Tired limbs seek the grey shades
And the hills still roll by

[OneBrickOneVoice]

Patriotic Future

Chapter 1

Spartacus stopped running, panting, he gazes up and sees the building across the street. How had he ended up back here? The building was a big dull concrete and steel building. It took up the entire block. Bright lights and cameras surrounded the door and there was a big government poster on each side of the entrance to the building. The posters were of a picture of a smiling U.S. Marine on a big tank with a large machine gun waving towards the camera. Below the picture in big font the poster stated, “Support the troops. Report any Anti-War Activities to your local patriot station.” Spartacus quickly opened his flask and took a swig of whiskey. It was his 18th birthday and he had spent it running from military police occupying his neighborhood. Being outside without your national id tracker card was strictly prohibited and punishment would be severe, of course he runs into a checkpoint. Tanks, dogs, soldiers and armored vehicles searching workers coming back from their job to their homes in the so called “high terror alert zone”. Spartacus chuckled to himself. What a coincidence that every neighborhood in the city was considered a “high terror alert zone” before it was his turn he decided to find another way around and some soldiers tried to arrest him. He decides to keep walking. Catching his breathe, he looks at his wrist watch; the time is 9:23, 7 minutes before city-wide curfew. The day is November 2nd 2020. The twentieth anniversary of Bush’s election.

4/1/08

Chapter 2

Spartacus slipped past a U.S.S guard on his block and in through the back entrance of his building. The wallpaper was ads for several corporations and lined everything. The cheap lead paint was chipping off the walls as the building lay in disrepair. First it was just ads in papers, then radio and TV came along and corporations took them over, then ads starting appearing on city street walls, on bus stations, in subway stations, on the buses, on the subways, on buildings, and at sporting events, now it was everywhere in your own home, even in your dreams corporations would advertise their products and brainwash you with their messages of greed and consumerism.
He stopped on the sixth floor and quietly opened the door to his apartment and walked in. Even in your home the government and corporations were watching. It started out with a bill here and there. The fascists had used fear to take away people’s rights stealing away our right to privacy with wire tapping bills like the Patriot Act and the Military Commissions Act, for some reason, everyone forgot Hitler did the same, and everyone thought that an election would do it all away but just changing the face of the monster doesn’t change the monster

4/5/08

Chapter 3

Spartacus closed the door behind him, Ernesto and Bolivar were watching TV on their ratty couch. They looked relieved to see him. “We thought the rounded you up man, where you been?” asked Bolivar.
“I forgot my ID here, I had to take a bit of a detour,” replied Spartacus as he pulled an Old E from the fridge.
“We thought you were outside hunting for Dragpos with the rest of the good law abiding citizens.” Said Ernesto.
“What?”
“You mean you haven’t seen? The government’s newest anti-terror ads man, they’re claiming immigrants eat your heart out and then kill all your dragpos.”
“What’s a dragpo?”
Bolivar jumped in, “It’s the dragon hippo hybrids that the corporations put in our minds to eat our sadness away.”
They all cracked up laughing, but Spartacus wasn’t sure whether or not they were serious. He finished off the forty, and crashed on his futon.

4/9/08

Chapter 4

Spartacus woke up to the sound of his radio alarm clock, it was five in the morning. The same old trash was playing on the radio. It wasn’t even music anymore. Music as an art form had ceased to exsist. Before at least music would have its periods of ultimate peaks before it was commodified, commercialized, and perverted by corporations. Now music had just become advertisements for shit corporations tried to sell you to get your minds off of what a hell society had become. The song playing was just another song about how women are *****es, the point of life is to make money, and how terrible homosexuality is. After three more songs like that on the radio, the DJ came on, “Good morning America, what a fine spring day it is, this is Radio Free America, we have another 5 minutes of commercial free – yet completely commercialized and unartistic music for you coming up, so sit tight, watch for illegal immigrants, homosexuals, communists, and terrorists because we’ll be right back ----“ Spartacus had enough, he grabbed his bag, he skipped breakfast even though he was starving, there was no food in the house, the fridge was basically a novelty toy. It wasn’t like the country didn’t have enough food. It did. It’s the richest country in the world yet eating was precious for someone with a job as a janitor. While the government spent millions to bailout big banks which had gotten themselves in trouble, it did nothing to help the people who the banks were foreclosing on. Instead of eating, He went into his closet and pulled out an anti-terror kit. Inside was a canvas with his masterpiece in it. Finding a canvas was nearly impossible as all art supplies had been banned. Any art which was not profitable was banned because it might inspire creative and/or rebellious thought which would just aide the terrorists and wrong-doers. Spartacus had spent days working on the piece it was small, but it was detailed, today he would finish it. The painting was a landscape painting of the landscape outside his apartment’s one grimy window. Spartacus quite enjoyed painting landscapes they were very straightforward yet he could put his heart and soul into the piece. He had painted the barbed wire fence, he had painted the large building, he had only forgotten one detail, the faces of the prisoners holding onto the barred windows of the Gitmo style military prison. Now if only he could paint the screams of the naked hooded prisoners and barking of the attack dogs and the echoing laughs of the military “interrogators”, then he’d really have a masterpiece…

4/12/08

Chapter 5

Spartacus finished up, and was out the door. He entered the train station. You know those cops that searched your stuff back in 2008? There still here in the train system except now there are metal detectors, dogs and riot cops at every train station. You know how those cops would pick muslims out of a crowd and search them just based on their racism? Now they just don’t allow muslims into the subway on suspicion of terrorist involvement.

[RedAnarchist]

The universe in azure tones
The stars their white islands
Drifting comets alone with the asteroids
Space shuttle on the Moon
No human before, many after
A god nowhere
Planets swirl across the plain
Solar system crashes into galaxy
Moons stare into the sun
Gaze at their planets at night.

[revolutionarysocialist]

Everyone repeated articles Lenin but no one understands what it is


Lenin ......... Lenin ........ Lenin
Everywhere you hear the name of Lenin
Even Trotsky shouting Lenin!
Considering why this cries??
Is it succeeded in command ship in the middle of hurricanes and led it to land??
Or because he died Kgne Some argued that they created to receive the money??
I can not but echo those words
Everyone repeated articles Lenin but no one understands what it is
The teams who soldier shouting that God in the land?!
They also shouted that they follow Lenin and Oarthy flag of Lenin and the first two others. Where advocates of socialist construction!! Socialist construction!!
Wasted important and formalities Althua
Why not call Bnhn ?!!!!!!!!
Do not have the brains and the brains of Lenin has also???
I can not but echo those words
Everyone repeated articles Lenin but no one understands what it is

[revolutionarysocialist]

Guevara

Guevara Almsag difficult for the summit of the imperialists and opportunists
His death ended that thought
But he became an heroic each rebel
Clothes communist traitors recruited to extinguish Light
But Nour brightest of light God
Entrusted rebels not to chant bullet does not mention by name
Here bullet fired .. There ..
Still shadows terrify every tributyltin
And tell them
I am here ... I am there .... I rebel bullets

[Mujer Libre]

Hey- jut wondering- did you write these poems yourself?

If you did, you can post them in the Creative Writing thread that is pinned at the top of the forum. :)

Cheers.

[Malakangga]

Hey great poem, i like that

[revolutionarysocialist]

Hey- jut wondering- did you write these poems yourself?

If you did, you can post them in the Creative Writing thread that is pinned at the top of the forum. :)

Cheers.

yes i wrote it.

how can i do that? tell me.

[revolutionarysocialist]

Hey great poem, i like that

thanks comrade

[revolutionarysocialist]

Stand my comrade

Stand my comrade to heed the call of communism
Stand my comrade to rain them by shot guevaralism
Stand my comrade to show how the communist red stars

[Mujer Libre]

yes i wrote it.

how can i do that? tell me.
All you need to do is post them in this thread. :)

This way all our members' contributions stay at the top of the forum, where people can read them, rather than falling off the first page.

[revolutionarysocialist]

Claiming that you are free Communists






Met here or there
make congress here or there

Take picture for this crowd and that demonstration

And sent photos to outside and get money

Hurls revolutionary slogans and fought rebels

After all this, Claiming that you are free Communists

[revolutionarysocialist]

In the memory of stalin death
Nipples plate battle
Painted your friends to drop the throne in Nepal Hindu
The painted your friends in India to lift the slogan of land for farmers
The painted Konzzallowa in prison
And painted our comrades in prison Belgium
The Okean is painted in America
Your friends and painted raging in Colombia
The painted your friends military operations in Iraq
And painted every communist Thaer Bnzalh for tomorrow communist

[RHIZOMES]

I'm sorry, I don't understand. Was this translated from another language?

[RedAnarchist]

Probably was, maybe from Arabic.

[Sugar Hill Kevis]

A haircut and two bottles of wine please

“You’re a little rough around the edges”
Yeah, well so is your mother.

I love dry British wit. I’m Christian, (by name, not creed). I’m eighteen years, three weeks and two days old. Every morning I stare in to the mirror for a good ten minutes, ruffling my hair in exasperated vanity though making little difference to its actual composition. As I stare in to the mirror I also stare in to the expressive eyes of a finely pampered Donny Osmond, emblazoned on the calendar I bought for 79p at HMV after the turn of the New Year when everyone else has already bought one. For some reason Donny had not outsold his cyclic rivals such as David Beckham and the Pussycat Dolls. The calendar says it’s April despite it being July and the only marked date on it is my ex girlfriend’s birthday.
That's the first paragraph from the novel I'm writing (the novel is called Kebabs and Croquet)

[RedAnarchist]

That's the first paragraph from the novel I'm writing (the novel is called Kebabs and Croquet)

That looks good so far.

[Sugar Hill Kevis]

Thanks :)

[revolutionarysocialist]

Bark

Some trotskism dogs bark

On Some pictures of Stalin bark

Because they have not been able to erode him they bark

[revolutionarysocialist]

Under the influence



of alcohol


drank a cup and take breath

spoke about your past inverse what it was

draw grandest championship pictures

Under the influence of alcohol

And drank another cup and take 2 breath

And build your special ideology communism

Under the influence of alcohol

keep drinking and take many breath

And build your organization scoop
Under the influence of alcohol
And build site and newspaper
Under the influence of alcohol
Watched the masses
Go to your invitation
Crowds
Under the influence of alcohol
Told me how to be when you wake of influence of alcohol

[revolutionarysocialist]

Claiming that you are free Communists






Met here or there
make congress here or there

Take picture for this crowd and that demonstration

And sent photos to outside and get money

Hurls revolutionary slogans and fought rebels

After all this, Claiming that you are free Communists

[RedAnarchist]

Flames licking at your wounds will not cleanse
Tombs line your neighbourhoods
Election worries in the times of war
No, don't listen to the Vietnamese of today
You burned them and now they burn you
Did you think the world was naive?
Naive enough not to see the future?
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
In this tomb you lie forevermore.

[RedAnarchist]

(A bit premature, but meh:D)

Ding dong the witch is dead
In the end no good word was said

Here lies Margaret Thatcher
Horrible little milk snatcher

After all is said and done
In the end the left has won

Now she lies rotting in the ground
We wont miss having her around

[RedAnarchist]

Laughter ripples through air
Humourous language born of wit
Jokes were told, stories were shared
Talking crowds of society
The sun filters through some curtains
And illuminates the group
Little do they know in there
Of the changes on the street

[RedAnarchist]

A lonely leaf floats in the wind
Sunset in the sky is the ending
Bleak skies, similar to death
Frost conquers all

Drowned grass, white seas
Day rushed through to the dark
Climbing smoke rushes to the moon
Burning at the stake, warming hands

White Arctic over warming verdant
Green pioneer, show yourself
Rain comes, with love for the soil
Tiny buds bloom to reveal natures art

Sun caresses our skin
Love between us, spring passion
The day relaxes, slowing down
Cool breeze in the night

Breathe in the life that is here
Clear air and the bluest of skies
A year never has a twin
Wonderful beauty of these days.

[RedAnarchist]

I've heard of something which smells of crap
I refer to it as the commie group of rap

Their fearless leader seems to be Comrade Joe
I'd wait for his reply, but hes slug-like slow

Now if they take the time, my poems they'll diss
But thats one review I'd rather miss

Since eleven I've been writing my verses
And I'm not about to them in literary hearses

In the CC they prepared for battle
But in there, no more title tattle

Everyone in the revleft has a rapper they love
Give it up for Sun Rise Above

This poem is not gonna be an epic
But if it were, that would be sick

Now I'm giving them a chance to fail
With their raps which are so very stale!

10,000 posts!:lol:

[Colonello Buendia]

That's the first paragraph from the novel I'm writing (the novel is called Kebabs and Croquet)
sounds good, I'd read it :)

[Colonello Buendia]

On the eastern front a snipers bullet is prayed for, that blinding flash and then total blackness is preferred to the uncompromising feral winds scouring the snow covered fields and negating what little protection the white camouflage overalls provided.
Igor Pavlov was freezing; his trigger finger slid into position on his brand new Mosin Nagat rifle and Igor peered excitedly into the snow. Two German soldiers were walking towards him. “Come closer… closer, yes that’s it keep walking” he murmured as he centred the crosshairs on the leading man, an officer. There was a loud crack and the German officer fell to the ground his skull collapsed brain tissue spattered on his trench coat. Igor felt a rush of excitement as he saw the pink mist rise from the fallen soldier, his hairs stood on end as he aimed at the now terrified crouching soldier. Another rifle crack, the other German fell to the ground. Igor slung his rifle and broke cover, he ran awkwardly through the snowdrift to his fallen adversaries. He fumbled with his gloves and threw them to the ground. He ripped the men’s dog tags off and grinned at his prize. He put the two bits of metal in his tunic pocket and put his gloves back on. Igor made a hasty retreat back to the Soviet lines.
Igor heard accordion music as he approached the dug out, a dim glow came from within, the lingering odour of burnt human flesh clung to his clothes, “should’ve waited before getting their tags, …” he thought to himself as he reached into his tunic pocket to touch the tags. He stepped into the dug out and without greeting his comrades he went to his bunk. He was a solitary man, dedicated to the party but indifferent to the people who fought next to him. His reasoning was that he was at the forefront of the advance, a lone wolf ahead of the pack, these men weren’t his comrades, his rifle was his comrade, these men, these unshaven dirty peasants press ganged into the red army, they didn’t even choose to help, they were forced! They’re no comrades of his! He sat on his bunk and rummaged in his battered knapsack for his rations, he then went over to the large soup tureen and ladled some beetroot soup into a chipped enamel bowl. He went back to his bunk and ripped a chunk of bread from the half loaf he was given. (Snipers were given better food than the regular troops) He ate quickly and carelessly, soup was spilled on the floor and there was a flurry crumbs from his dark coloured bread. He took a swig from his hip flask and felt his cheeks warm up, the vodka worked swiftly and he soon felt warm and comfortable. He took his boots off and examined his old socks, they were covered in holes and they stank, they were putrid. Igor eyes stung and he felt ill at the smell. He hastily put his boots back on.
“Hey Igor! How many kills today?” asked one of the soldiers, an old peasant by the name of Uri Korsakov.
“2” grunted Igor shortly, “why?”
“Just wondering how many fascist pigs we’ll have to fight tomorrow comrade!” replied Uri laughing heartily.
“right” murmured Igor, and he went back to his own things.
The next morning, Commissar Volkhov visited the dug out. “Comrades!” he exclaimed, “Are you prepared to assist in the glorious defence of the October revolution? Comrade Stalin expects it of every brave soldier on the Leningrad front you know; don’t disappoint him. He is with us in spirit you know. Every loss affects him greatly, every victory makes him celebrate!”


this is a little thing I wrote a few months back, any criticism or advice is welcome:)

[RedAnarchist]

On the eastern front a snipers bullet is prayed for, that blinding flash and then total blackness is preferred to the uncompromising feral winds scouring the snow covered fields and negating what little protection the white camouflage overalls provided.
Igor Pavlov was freezing; his trigger finger slid into position on his brand new Mosin Nagat rifle and Igor peered excitedly into the snow. Two German soldiers were walking towards him. “Come closer… closer, yes that’s it keep walking” he murmured as he centred the crosshairs on the leading man, an officer. There was a loud crack and the German officer fell to the ground his skull collapsed brain tissue spattered on his trench coat. Igor felt a rush of excitement as he saw the pink mist rise from the fallen soldier, his hairs stood on end as he aimed at the now terrified crouching soldier. Another rifle crack, the other German fell to the ground. Igor slung his rifle and broke cover, he ran awkwardly through the snowdrift to his fallen adversaries. He fumbled with his gloves and threw them to the ground. He ripped the men’s dog tags off and grinned at his prize. He put the two bits of metal in his tunic pocket and put his gloves back on. Igor made a hasty retreat back to the Soviet lines.
Igor heard accordion music as he approached the dug out, a dim glow came from within, the lingering odour of burnt human flesh clung to his clothes, “should’ve waited before getting their tags, …” he thought to himself as he reached into his tunic pocket to touch the tags. He stepped into the dug out and without greeting his comrades he went to his bunk. He was a solitary man, dedicated to the party but indifferent to the people who fought next to him. His reasoning was that he was at the forefront of the advance, a lone wolf ahead of the pack, these men weren’t his comrades, his rifle was his comrade, these men, these unshaven dirty peasants press ganged into the red army, they didn’t even choose to help, they were forced! They’re no comrades of his! He sat on his bunk and rummaged in his battered knapsack for his rations, he then went over to the large soup tureen and ladled some beetroot soup into a chipped enamel bowl. He went back to his bunk and ripped a chunk of bread from the half loaf he was given. (Snipers were given better food than the regular troops) He ate quickly and carelessly, soup was spilled on the floor and there was a flurry crumbs from his dark coloured bread. He took a swig from his hip flask and felt his cheeks warm up, the vodka worked swiftly and he soon felt warm and comfortable. He took his boots off and examined his old socks, they were covered in holes and they stank, they were putrid. Igor eyes stung and he felt ill at the smell. He hastily put his boots back on.
“Hey Igor! How many kills today?” asked one of the soldiers, an old peasant by the name of Uri Korsakov.
“2” grunted Igor shortly, “why?”
“Just wondering how many fascist pigs we’ll have to fight tomorrow comrade!” replied Uri laughing heartily.
“right” murmured Igor, and he went back to his own things.
The next morning, Commissar Volkhov visited the dug out. “Comrades!” he exclaimed, “Are you prepared to assist in the glorious defence of the October revolution? Comrade Stalin expects it of every brave soldier on the Leningrad front you know; don’t disappoint him. He is with us in spirit you know. Every loss affects him greatly, every victory makes him celebrate!”


this is a little thing I wrote a few months back, any criticism or advice is welcome:)

Thats good, you should make some more contributions to this thread.:)

[RedAnarchist]

The first to arrive is January
Icy arms, scorching legs
She comes with a gift of extremes
Split in two with firework applause

Next comes February
Herald of the equinox
Breezy, cheery little man
Short in nature, big in heart

March is third in our time
Time for changes in the air
Birth and death mark this month
No wonder, named after Mars

April, the ocean month
She brings us new birth and old death
Made of rubber is this time
Days are testament to this

May, the month of workers
Fiery and tall, she knows of revolution
Chains shattered, locks broken
Epitome of strength

June, double crosser
Hidden in shrouds and mystery
He hides in the shadows, even at night
Watches you with his four eyes

July, the monarch month
Named after a vegetarian perhaps
Roman influence, he lives in a villa
A villa fit for a Ceasar

August is our next era
Chills the south, boils the north
Close friend of January, obviously
Poor split month of two souls

September, identity crisis
Seventh in times long gone by
Pushed back in the pecking order
Self-pity not shown, however

October, pagan heart
Month of orange, reign of black
Murderer of leaves, mother of wind
Queen of the changing tide

November, nearly there
End these days with darkness
Wrinkles appear, eyesight goes
Nearly gone, our frail year

December arrives and down it goes
End of the year with firework applause
In the north, the grave dug in snow
In the south, he lies in dust

[RedAnarchist]

Monday, the working week
Gloomy always, shaded blue
Capitalistic hours of hedonism
This day in the week

Tuesday, somehow better
Neither start nor end
Bleak blue, diluted
In the week of the world

Wednesday, middle of work
Savour this, its nearly gone
And climb mountains to summits
In the centre of the week

Thursday, Norse culture reigns
Thor himself could not stop time
The endless week is humiliated
As we near the supposed finish

Friday, the athiests find religion
End of the week in a social way
Now to rest and love and be ourselves
And all before the week has gone

Saturday, natural athelete
Won for rest by socialists
First of two, best of seven
Close to the finish of this week

Sunday, end of the week
Final day before the hourglass wakes
Sleepy day, slumber reigns
On this, the last day

[RedAnarchist]

Slowly melting, ice dying
Spring kills the ailing dark
Flower grows, clouds pale
Sunshine warm, trees blossom
Grass green and lush
Lamb frolics, cows graze
Blue skies, breezy days
Start of the mortal life
Bees float, birds sing
Warm air, cool rivers
Spring kills the ailing dark

[Colonello Buendia]

thanks, I plan too :D

[rohith003]

Its raining
Bubbles and bubbles
muddy water
on the streets.
Stopped drainage
pressureless pleasure
in hearts of
workers,
that evening.
Sky surrendered
by clouds
painting
its dreams
on sheet of sky.
Solo music
on the breeze
of wind
carrying fragrance
of rose.
Hearts of everyone
became light
flying on a
unknown delightful feeling.
Silence every where
every one flying
in air making
themselves light
tensionless and relief.

On the road
sleeping
old lady
starving.
Everyone
started thinking
her as a distrubance
to the whole
pleasure.
Her plate
infront empty.
No on know her
and no one love her.
Winds shouted with anger
seeing her.
Vultures waiting
for her death.
Rats showing pity
on the lady.
Suddenly
lady died
leaving no one as sin.
WHO TAKES RESPONSIBILITY FOR HER DEATH?

[MaverickChaos]

I wrote my first ever poem today, it's about the emphasis on individualism set forth by post-modern Capitalism.

The Facade of Individuality

Isolated by your pretension
and superficial idiosyncrasies
you used to consume to survive
but now you survive to consume
and differentiate yourself from me

We're fragmented, indoctrinated,
exploited and enslaved
on the surface we're affluent
but in essence we're depraved

The players may have changed
but the game is still the same
assimilation is vital,
and dissent is inane
unless it's expressed only through a
label or brand name

And in chains of gold
you declare yourself free
a testament to their hegemony

But I see that we breathe, we sweat,
and we bleed equally;
beyond the facade of individuality.

[Junius]

^ I thought it was good.

Foxes in Red.

The echo of your clapping signals
the screams of their bullets.
Your manic cries of nationalism heralds
the end of our class.
'Which side are you on?'
you question us.
But this is a game where both lose.
Or rather
they win
and we lose.
Yet your urges ring in our ears:
‘The flag must prevail!’
but for whom does this flag fly for?
Let’s be clear:
Those whom hand us rifles
and send us against our fellow workers whom
we have no quarrel with,
those who insist on our right
to be exploited in ‘our own country’
or a country with a familiar name
or a country, where, we can be exploited
by those with familiar names
let's be clear!
These people have an unquenchable jealousy.
The loss of their nation
means the loss of their profit.
Those who meddle with their crown
and coins
these: you proclaim to be our enemy.
We fight for their right to exploit us
and so you so-called emancipators urge us too.
Our leaders repeat to us:
we are all in the same boat,
their whips conveniently cracking behind us.
Our lives are chained to the oars,
Our fates sealed to the boat
Will it sink, or not?
We know it doesn't matter,
their pockets sag down
with the weight of their gold.
Our only hope:
Mutiny.
To you foxes in red,
We are but pawns in a game of chess.
But to us,
this is a game not worth playing.

-/-/-/

I was inspired to write it after reading something by Bordiga - I stole part of it too, since it was such good imagery.

[EseSocialistaSurge]

Land of Hypocrisy



Born of great ideals he works his hardest

To be one day cut out from all of the rest

Him, coming from the opposite of extravagance

He tries to reach the “dream” in his defiance

Of which in his peoples eyes is the only way

Although it may take time and much dismay

He looks to those native of this sore on mother earth

And is surprised to see things in all of its worth

He sees men who are handed what he needs freely

He sees men who take for granted what they need really

He sees those up in class where the money circulates

And he sees those at his level where it only evaporates

He realizes the hypocrisy of the land of the free

Were you can be what you wish to be, if only for a fee

Yet he tries to make it, beyond this reality

Only to find one simple commonality

Those without the infection that feeds the sore

Are the people the upper class seem to ignore

And those a standard below but with the infection

Only seem to receive… the real affection



So what do you guys think? Critize it if you wish, that would be most helpful so that I can create better poems in the future. Thanks

[EseSocialistaSurge]

Yankee No



They all sit there, in turmoil, famine, and poverty

Victims of not a democracy but simply one party

The indigenous peasants are those who work the earth

While the Yankees exploit them for all of there worth

They strip the beauty of the face of Southern America

But at the consent of dictators, unlike in Africa

The voice of the voiceless must all together be heard

From the 1st world, to the second, and especially the third

We must not let this cannibal eat more of our own

It only leaves exploitation of the people, as history has shown

Peasants, workers, comrades, together we unite

To put an end to the invasion in one single fight

Ironic really is the battle for world peace

But Yankees and rulers will not just release

We must fight for what we believe in and overthrow

As we are all united, we can deal the fatal blow

Set forth a government of socialist view
And let the world know, that it can be true

Once again it would be nice if you guys could critque this poem also. Thank you very much :)

[Angry Young Man]

Land of Hypocrisy
Change that title. It, in faith, is not very imaginative.




Born of great ideals he works his hardest
To be one day cut out from all of the rest

Don't force a rhyme



Him, coming from the opposite of extravagance
He tries to reach the “dream” in his defiance

Don't quote mark dream. Alternatively, consider a different word



Of which in his peoples eyes is the only way
Although it may take time and much dismay

Maybe re-assess the syntax


He looks to those native of this sore on mother earth
Make simply 'earth'. 'Mother earth' is a hippy cliche


He sees men who are handed what he needs freely
Excellent line


He sees men who take for granted what they need really
'Really' doesn't really affect the kind of confusion. Try 'severely' or 'fearfully'

I'll comment on the rest later. Until then, I'll recommend you read Shelley's sonnet England in 1819 for guidance on how to write a diatribe in verse

[JohannGE]

Great thread and some fine work. Red Anarchist, not only good, but prolific.
Thanks all.


With apologies to all the proper poets out there here is the one and only poem I have ever writen in over 50yrs! Ok... I won't give up the day job. :) Inspired by this thread and a great Spring walk overshadowed by an item on the days news.


It’s on its way.

The insistent flow of the winding river
fanfares the melting of the ice.
Banishing to the cleansing depths
the winters last, futile defense,
of sterile cold and dark.

The excitable chatter of the gossiping rooks
heralds the call to arms.
Marching with the sanguine banner,
driven by irresistible genes,
toward victory for life.

The billowing smoke of fertile willows,
proclaims the opening volley.
Firing across an expectant landscape,
the resumption of bloody battle,
in an age old struggle.

The neglected hope of dreams, long asleep,
demands it’s eternal rebirth.
Dismissing threats of a coming “summer of rage”
from the old master in abeyance,
Spring, is on its way.

[Emily]

Hi- great thread! Is anyone here on Writer's Cafe? Here's a rough one I drafted up recently:

You hold up your banner bright, your head
Unbowed, as you march upon the cold hard ground,
From which lies the coffins of the red, dead;
And yet,
Not to the works that you find profound.

You are not just the proletariat, but more so than that,
The middle classes’ chosen few that are the very same
Soil of your comrades who followed you into combat
Who bled the same blood, and shared your pain.

And still
There are many that flaw your name,
Glorious and a deep hue of bold scarlet, the sneer
From the black eyes of the traitor that rains the shame
Upon your red and yellow frontier.

Who is true and who is not, the very question
Is shouted out from the tenacious and the brave
But soon all is lost, along with the expression,
As in come the oppression, wave by wave.

The corrupted disguise themselves and they strike
Poisoning our sacred knowledge and our truth,
Portraying us a falsehood that we are so unlike,
Poisoning the idea of liberty we teach our youth.

We have suffered long and suffered hard, but!
We have not fallen to their power!
No matter how many of us they try to cut,
Well still fight, by the name, and on the hour

We must remember Lenin and the heroes, our
Most ungodly messiahs who were born from the Earth,
To teach justice, equality and bless us with the red star
But not be disillusioned or our morals will become dearth.

So you just utter that simple word, and I will
Be there to side you so our word of red is spread
Though bleed we might, And we’ll fight this until
We too join our brothers and sisters, the dead,
In the cold hard ground.

[scarletghoul]

Cool poems. Cool rhymes in some of them too (including last one)

I write poems sometimes but theyre not often political... some recent ones that kind of are-

16.2.9 17.2.9 |

The flowers are fighting again
It's fucking ridiculous
What is the point in flowers fighting?

The sun is shining again
Can it be serious?
Shine your light elsewhere, cruel sun!

If there was no death
Would there still be love?
Whatever happened to the dead anyway?

If butchers had feelings
Would we eat them too?
Put your bloody flowers away.
________________________________
26.2.9 | LoveLetter

LoveLetter's an enigma
Half Latvian, half Chinese
She's always looking happy
As she dances to your heart
And only aims to please

LoveLetter from China
Wears bright clothes and loves the moon
She likes to pick you flowers
Until the seasons kill them
She wants to marry you

LoveLetter from Latvia
Just got back from the funeral
The black death killed her parents
She sits down next to you
Takes off her black hat
And begs you for her burial

[Emily]

Wow, Cher! Those are fantastic! I especially loved the first one. The beat and rythms are brilliant :)

[scarletghoul]

Hehe, thanks! I never really showed my poetry to people before.
As I said before your poem is good, you should post more.

[Emily]

Thank you. But its an old one, and needs working on.
You should totally post more. Those are great. :)

[scarletghoul]

Well it will be cool to see it when youve refined it then. I might post some more later
Also I checked out that site "writers cafe" it seems pretty cool.

[Emily]

It is a really friendly site, and I've been on it for an enjoyable year.
Here's another quick one I did:

I do not believe in black power,
They called me racist.

I do not believe in Gay pride,
They called me homophobic.

I do not believe in my nation,
They called me unpatriotic.

I do not believe in the West,
They called me a Terrorist.


I do not believe in feminism,
They called me a slave.


I do believe in equal rights for everyone, regardless of skin, sexuality, nationality, place, or gender, by ignoring those aspects and focusing on the soul within.


They called me stupid.
But I still believe and always will.

[scarletghoul]

Thats cool! I like how it is straight forward and clear
Just joined Writers Cafe. Ill add some poems tomorrow. Good night

[Emily]

Thanks, it was just a quick one. :) Glad to hear you joined! :D G'nite!

[LOLseph Stalin]

It may not be leftist related or poetry, but here's a sample of a piece i'm working on about Ancient Rome:

It was only a matter of time now. Theo sat by the cage of a lion praying to the Gods for his survival. He hoped that all his training would pay off. Why must I die this way? He pleaded for strengh as he began to think of home and his family. Greece seemed a world away now, despite how hard it has been for Theo to accept Rome as his new home. It was hard to forget the day that he was captured. It reminded him of horrifying memories.

"Bind the damn boy before he escapes!" Theo remembered clearly every word of the Roman officer who was in charge of capturing slaves. Some slave he was, being trained to kill and be killed. Death was everywhere. Theo could smell the stench of blood coming from the arena. There has been another death. He knew it wasn't going to be the last one today. The crowd was screaming for more. From this, Theo knew the Romans only as bloodthirsty fiends. It disgusted him that they would watch deaths for fun. He began to think that maybe that was the reason they had slit his mother's throat to prevent her from fighting back. This was one thing he was never going to forget. They did it right in front of his face. That was the first atrocity he witnessed from the Romans and he knew right from that moment it wouldn't be the last.

It turns out he was correct. Theo turned away as the body of a dead gladiator was being dragged out of the arena. It was too much for him to take in. The corpse had been torn apart and many of the organs were left hanging out. An animal had been hungry. Theo hated the thought of himself facing the same fate. It was funny. In their cages the animals seemed like beautiful majestic creatures, yet in the arena they were vicious killers. The lions were, by far reputated to be the worse. Theo stared into the cage of the lion beside him. It was smaller than the rest. Perhaps she was still a kitten?

"You're just like me in a way, being torn away from your family only to be transformed into a killing machine." Theo spoke to the lion softly, being brave and stroking her. The lion didn't even try to nip at his hand once. In fact, the lion seemed perfectly content to be petted. She seemed just as nervous as he was. I know somebody is going to be spared here today. Theo felt this lion would probably not have intentions of killing, once placed into the arena. Theo began to pray that he would have to face this beast. At least he would have a chance to live through his first duel.

Just as he was getting content with petting the lion, Theo was ordered into the arena. It was time. He nervously made his way out into the open and immediately he was greeted by frantic cheering. He learned that they were not cheering to welcome him, but to welcome more death. Theo was just a pawn in this little game so it was hard to believe he would last. He stood ready, waiting to meet his opponent. It could be an animal or another gladiator. The suspense was killing him.

Bears? Theo trembled as the huge bear was brought into the arena. He began to examine it as the other two gladiators entered the arena. It was a majestic creature, it truly was. The whole idea of being dragged to his death by such a powerful creature didn't exactly appeal to Theo, but what did he have to lose? Nothing really. He had been captured as a slave and would be expected to follow his master's orders, even if it meant death. Theo knew the other two young men trapped in the arena could feel it too. They were trembling even more franticly than him. It made Theo feel slightly better about his position when he discovered the other two were smaller than him. It was to be survival of the fittest and Theo was confident he would be the fittest of the three "hunters".

Theo stood in a defensive position as the annoucement for the beginning of the battle was carried out. This was it. This would be Theo's final test. He could finally put all his rigorous training to work. Despite being slaves, gladiators were trained extremely well from a young age. It was said gladiators could be successful as soldiers if they were needed in battle. This was a fate Theo much preferred for himself. At least he would be dying with a sense of honour, defending Rome. Despite how much Theo wanted to be elsewhere he had to stay focused as the bear was now charging towards him and the other gladiators.

"Fuck! Take cover!" Theo managed to quickly shout out one command to the others before being shoved into the sand. They were lucky there were a couple trees within the arena. If not alot, they would provide some protection. Theo began screaming in pain as the bear began tearing at his flesh. He would have to fight back with the little protection he had been given before being forced into the arena: his sword. It wasn't much, but at least it was something. Theo had heard stories about unlucky gladiators being sent in unarmed. This was a horror he never wanted to experience. He would rather die before that point. He knew that at a certain point the really skilled gladiators would eventually be given the "thumbs down". He had learned exactly what it meant. Death.

Theo managed to get a firm grip on his sword while the bear got distracted by the other two gladiators who were now standing behind the trees. At this point, frantic cheering from the crowd began to build up. This made Theo uneasy. The cheering was usually against the gladiator. Mars, grant me strength! Theo prayed, struggling to get up out of the sand. By this point there was already a gaping hole in his side, but not large enough to leave anything exposed. He had been lucky so far. Sword in hand, he began charging towards the bear as it had done towards him. It was the bear's turn to feel pain and Theo wouldn't be delivering it lightly.

[Emily]

That was really great! I really enjoyed that. Gripping and energetic. :D How far are you on into it?

[LOLseph Stalin]

I'm actually not that far yet. I haven't worked on it for so long. Life is busy. Oh well. I will finish eventually!

[scarletghoul]

Pretty cool. I don't like ancient Rome stuff, but its well written

28.2.9 | Jora's Song-

When the moon comes too close
and looks like it will fall
They say "be gone foul moon!"
"Something must be wrong!"
I believe this is unwise
We should let the moon fall
and welcome her with open arms
As she destroys the world
and graces us with her beautiful moondust
Straight from the heavens
In our very own Earth!
Imagine
It will be the best day ever
The world will explode into heaven
Everyone will fall in love again
All opposites will kiss
Just once
To say goodbye for all eternity
As one
In this celebration of cosmic dialectics
The theoretical works of Hegel, Engels and Mao are vindicated
Through the destructive union
and resolution of all contradiction
War and peace will become one
and it will be named Glory
Life and death will dance together
Just like they had done so many times
(But this time with unmatched grace and elegence
for they finally will understand
what they are dancing for)
The kings will embrace the insects
The birds will embrace the buildings
The Sky will embrace the Earth
The nations will embrace their wars
and delight finally in their destruction
"O it has taken so long!
How long I have waited for this day
When the blessed intercontinental missile sails through the sky
From Nation to nation
Hatred to hatred
To unite us once and for all in this passionate exchange
Though we have many differances, dear foreigner
Today we realise how much we really have in common-
The urge to threaten and explode eachother
Yes, the bomb she is sailing now
Darker than the raven
With more elegence than the dove
Soon she will greet you
And kiss the cheek of your Kingdom
I trust you will return the blessing
And she will come back to us
To tell us that it is over
And together, dear foreigner, comrade, we shall watch
The greatest firework display ever"
All people shall rejoice
In one rapturous applaus
and the Lord's name shall echo
Throughout the whole world
Through every piece of debris
Every former monument
Every child's skull
and cloud of moondust and ashes
Every drop of rain
If raindrops fall from the sky
and no one is around to drown
Can it be called a flood?
All people, animals, plants and stones
Together to celebrate
The final night of kisses
As right and wrong
Scream and song
Suicide and murder
Are one.

[Emily]

That's amazing! Very metaphorical, and almost mythopoetical. I love it! :)

[LOLseph Stalin]

Pretty cool. I don't like ancient Rome stuff, but its well written

Thanks! ^_^

Who knows? I may post more of it eventually.

[Emily]

Thanks! ^_^

Who knows? I may post more of it eventually.

Please do! I'd love to read more! :D

[LOLseph Stalin]

Please do! I'd love to read more! http://www.revleft.com/vb/creative-writing-thread-p1373401/revleft/smilies/biggrin.gif

I'll try. Damn, I need to get back into my writing mode one of these days.

[scarletghoul]

Yeah, you should write more

And thanks I was really tired when writing that lol

Yeah they are really friendly on Writers Cafe. hehehe. Its cool! They like my poems

[LOLseph Stalin]

Yeah, you should write more

And thanks I was really tired when writing that lol

Yeah they are really friendly on Writers Cafe. hehehe. Its cool! They like my poems


I actually don't get my writing criqued often so it's good to hear good reports when I do! :)

[Emily]

Join Writer's Cafe! :D They give you excellent critique.

[LOLseph Stalin]

Is that group on here or something?

[scarletghoul]

http://www.writerscafe.org/
;]

[Weezer]

:star:Revolution! Revolution!:star:
Was in the air!
Determined to fight where liberty went wear!
But revolution was struck halt in Nationalist glare!
When the Fascists lowered their bombs from air

Swastika-driven men, with the Condor planes,
As they strengthened the revolution's chains,
The Brigades of the world's bloody remains,
Piled a wall to chances of victorious campaigns

"Resist, resist!" rung in the heroes' head,
Before them and comrades were gunned dead.

Further the Spanish State grew,
The more revolution went askew,
Finally the revolution threw their last screw ,
At Ebro, they had their very last Pursue

The corpse of Revolution lies in debris,
Its heart, with the Bourgeoisie,
Its mind in the sea,
:star:But Revolution's spirit lies in you, and in me.:star:

Tried to fit this in my signature, but alas...

Anyway, this took me like 40 minutes to write. :) I haven't thought of title yet, suggestions are welcome.

In case you haven't noticed, it's about the Spanish Civil War. I'll be posting this on FictionPress in a few minutes.

[Emily]

That's wonderful! Interesting rhyme scheme, that somehow really fits the vivid imagery! I love it!

[Chapter 24]

I'm not someone who writes poetry in their spare time, nor do I really read poetry. However I did write this for my literature class as an extra credit assignment. Just some background information: the type is called a sestina: six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time. In this poem I used the words "travel", "eye", "describe", "time", "sing", and "everything." Anyway...


Time


The curved, stone road on which we travel
brings difficulty along the way, and the eye
beholds a sight which none can describe -
a certain clock, ticking through time,
an anthropomorphic.. being which will sing
the eternal song that remains through everything.


This is a rhythm which outlives anything and everything,
no creature can escape it, no creature can travel
away from it. It outlives the sing-
ing of the bird; the temporary illusions brought to the eye;
and all else.Nothing outlasts the creature which is Time,
an important yet strange figure, one impossible to describe.


It came to me as I passed by, it asked, “Can you describe
the effects of aging through which certainly everything
is altered? Did the Pink Floyd think titling a song Time
gave everyone an idea of me? They travel
this road with the blindest of a blind eye,
with their whistles, cheers, and songs they sing.


Yet of me you know nothing, of me you shall no longer sing.
I am the riddle wrapped in the enigma, to try to describe
me is to think you are greater than I.”
This seemed to be more arrogant than anything, everything,
and for this I first regretted going on this travel,
growing furious at this egomaniacal creature known as Time.


But despite all of that, I knew that this Time
character was true.Through the millennia, it continues to sing
while those who keep trying to travel
the road fail in their attempts to try and describe
who they are, what they are doing - in essence, everything.
Not too much seems certain to the naked eye.


The creature that is Time has no eye
to its name.The being that is Time
is blind.Through the peace and chaos and everything,
its only concern is to sing.
Its actions produce no physical thing one could describe,
yet its presence is always felt when we travel.


And we continue to travel, and we attempt to describe
the singing of that song that goes on forever.
The eye of a storm of ideas, time and time again, is a sanctuary for everything.

[Il Medico]

Into the Night
My Heart Cries Justice! In the mist of tyranny
My soul weeps at liberty lost.
All that I am, all I believe calls my hands to fight!
To stand up for my right,
Our right,
The Human right.
To the oppressors that would deny us equality,
That would take our freedom,
And exploit our very being.
We must fight!
Take that which is ours
We must stand up for our dignity, our equality,
Our Right!
Let us not sit in complacency,
For it is in our indifference that they rule.
In those who sit idle,
For in their passivity they have become as evil as their oppressor!
They have become cowards,
Sheep passing in the night.
In one magnificent gust history has swept them by.
So now I ask my friend, my brother,
And I shall ask this only once.
Will you be a lion or a sheep in this fight?
Will you pass quietly into the night?

By Captain Jack

[Il Medico]

Holding Ground
I am afflicted with virtuous,
Damning pride.
Not glowing with envy,
But seething with rightful anger at the sight of gluttony.
At those living in such lavish excess,
That even Dionysus would turn in shame.
And when they tempt me with a gilded hall,
In return for my pride, heart and soul.
I say No!
I refuse to kneel,
I stand my ground.
Though I have no shoes on my feet,
Or a shirt on my back,
Or a place to sleep,
I do not weep.
I continue on,
I wander the streets that consume men’s souls,
Fighting for ends meet,
I continue on,
When paid on Friday,
Penniless by Monday,
Down on Tuesday,
Hungry by Wednesday,
And desperate on Thursday,
I fight on,
And though they tell me this is my lot,
I seek something more,
Some dignity,
Some respect,
Some measure of equality,
I seek out some remnant of humanity.
And when they beat me down
I hold my ground,
I refuse to lie down,
I live on.

by Captain Jack

[Cynical Observer]

There's alot wrong with the world today,
And we all should have something to say,
No matter what they tell you,
There is no grey,
No moderation,
No bipartisan nations,
The issue is black and white,
And it's in plain sight,
There's once again reason to fight,
The war machine plows ahead,
For profit, For power,
Have we counted our dead?
Government big-wigs,
Catering to,
Industrialists, Silk suits, CANNIBAL PIGS,
The single mother starves, the capitalist throws a party in his new digs,
Does everything big,
Celebrates his brand new oil-rig,
His shiny toy,
Slave labor,
Hunch-backed little boys,
Sweating over,
Shoes they'll never own,
So bend over,
Work makes you free so don't moan,
But you're not alone,
The oppressed are the majority,
We share a fraternity,
Our paternity,
Was made up of free men,
So what are we then?
You think you're so free?
Why can't you see?
The cannibals are free!
They're running wild,
On the loose,
Wearing new clothes, in style,
While you're caught in their noose,
Independence is a ruse,
Ensures you'll always lose,
So stop bickering,
Stop debating,
We need to be communicating,
Fabricating, the counter-strike,
Instigating, revolution,
A pig's head on a pike!
Don't think they don't hear you,
Your screams,
Your pleas,
But know that they fear you,
Your dreams,
You hold the keys,
We need to stand up,
Need to strike down,
Move foward,
Beat back,
No negotiations,
No reforms, only reclaimation,
This is the new modernization,
Remaking civilization,
New methods, industialization,
We don't work for profit,
But for mutual benefit,
And that's the end of it,
No hidden clause,
No lies,
No tricks, the kind to give even thieves pause,
Your society justifies greed.
Ours will eliminate need,
We're not a new breed,
You're just a dying one,
Capitalist-Cannibals day is done,
We see through your lies,
When you failed to see through our eyes,
No capability,
For empathy,
You're empty,
You've got nothing but a gun,
But you need us, can't kill us,
Who would you feed on?
We allow no parasites,
Exploitation is not one of your "rights",
So beware, my enemy,
It's past your time,
You're already dead to me,
"It's a great idea, but it can't work."
That's what you said to me,
But you're the only obstacle,
So I'll take an ideal,
Over one of your lies, false deals,
See the only thing that works for me,
The way it has to be,
It's got to be, Red for me.
-me

[Cynical Observer]

The desperate,
The angry,
Their renouncing their hate,
Settling for shackles that they themselves make,
They worship their icons,
submitting to rape,
praising their religions,
and upholding their fashions,
They flagellate themselves with no reaction,
They follow their leaders,
Break into factions,
Faith is nothing,
We're all waiting for something,
A savior,
A leader,
You're looking to be ruled,
A savior,
A leader,
You're going to be fooled,
We follow the masses,
To burn brothers in masses,
Waiting for a priest to validate our actions,
Or maybe a savior to damn what we do,
In the name of self loathing we embrace you,
Tell the drones they are wrong,
Rid the world of meaningless songs,
They will love you,
Until you,
Succumb to humanity,
Until you realize this cynical reality,
What we want's a punisher,
Someone to hold us in check,
Crush us in our evils,
Slow down the soul death,
We are creatures in misery looking for a hero,
We are villians, the guilty, searching for our jailor.
-me

[RedAnarchist]

Locked door,
A vanished key,
No way to escape
Windows dusty, windows cracked,
Doors rushed effortlessly shut
Walls cave in, floors crumble away,
Gateway to Hell below the boards,
Ceiling crashes down,
The rafters now naked without shame,
Strings of sunlight,
Pour through an hole,
Play a sorrow dirge for the dead.

[RedAnarchist]

Fencing with the fog,
I reach out, call out,
The mist over eyes,
The chill running past,
Gloomy, bleak and boring,
Slashing at the misty flood,
Tearing at the blind old man,
This cloud, a floating nothing,
As I fence with the winter fog.

[RedAnarchist]

Thunder booms scoured the land
Their explosive nature of deadly light
The end of all days for this world
And the final act of this dystopic farce
The actors stagger drunkenly across the stage
Which is nowt but the last patch of dying grass
No applause or encore cries
Because this play has only one showing
Then the theatre gets burned down

[RedAnarchist]

Maybe a memory only now, I am afriad,
But perhaps my words will grow a new one just like it,
The oak tree in my back yard,
The one that grew from an acorn that slipped,
Fell into a slit in the concrete fields,
But knew that to be he must grow,
All this took place many decades before I walked this Earth,
By the time I was a child,
The tree was old and did not wish to be so bold
As to reach up to the sun anymore,
But its leaves were still growing,
And beneath it in summer we did sit under the branches
Protected by a friend who was dying,
Terminal, the tree weakened,
The tree died one misty winter's evening,
Noone around to give it a send off,
He died with the wind flowing through his hair,
We didn't know until some weeks later,
When his corpse broke and the tree fell,
Maybe a child of his slipped into the cracks again.

[which doctor]

bad poetry
oh noetry

[Revy]

There once was a man named Marx. He wrote many posts against the cappie n00bs. In Russia Lenin said "Revolution FTW!" and did a denial of service attack on the capitalist system. Then Lenin got deleted and Stalin and Trotsky had a flamewar over who would be mod of the Russia forum. Stalin became mod and banned Trotsky. Trotsky created a separate forum in exile.

to be continued.....

[RedAnarchist]

Never Sleeping City Under Attack

As the never sleeping city woke,
The calm blue skies were scarred,
Black smoke rising far above,
Nowhere near Heaven nor Paradise

Flames darken the steel, destroy the lives,
Smoke drowns out the final sight,
And as the towers fell down defeated,
The world saw it all in their living rooms.

The final seconds of the dying filmed for all,
The day, the hour, the second of impact,
American butterfly in Arab lands,
Islamic hurricane in New York City.



Day and Night

The sun melts away in the moon's gaze,
Stars begin to show in purple skies,
The dying summer anoints the autumn,
Clouds streak over dark lands,
And the calm sea waters grow cool.

The moon, defeated, slips away,
As the sun ascends to the cyan throne,
Clear skies greet the September breeze,
Leafs fall in graceful suicide, saving only the evergreen,
And under the sun the golden lands shine.


Then and Now

Ancient fertility,
Modern barren city,
The former fields, lush verdant,
Now drowned forever, grey asphalt
Rivers of industrial progress
Ended years of nature's sexual congress
And gone are the romantic scenes,
Destroyed by the powerful fiends.

[MilitantAnarchist]

I cant see a sticky thread for poems, but here we go, i wrote this while ago, i've changed the layout because my friends couldnt read it, originally it was one long peice with no punctuation or spaces it was just/wrote/like/this/is/now, but i changed it into 'normal' lines... it is completely comical and part of a series of random stoned poems i wrote, i once peformed it with a guitar (i cant play) but say it with no gap for breath, just one long sentence... i guess its more comical if your all stoned tho...


I have a dream that one day that 0.1% of us can coexist
with no police no government no Nazis and no fucking communists
and there’s no talk of what is right and wrong because we would all just fucking know
and then we’d be a true society and you can watch the numbers grow
but then maybe im just some hopeless utopian that’s lacking a few brain cells
because in my utopia the sun would always shine like in the fucking Seychelles
and they’d be free food everywhere and you wouldn’t have to work
no bills or debts or tv sets or suits and ties and shirts
and they’d be free music every single night and the pubs would never close
the booze would be free and you’d never have to change your clothes
weed plants would grow everywhere and we’d all get stoned together
and monogamy wouldn’t be an issue because love don’t last forever
all of us fucking in the streets pubs and in the garden
and religion would not exist so we don’t have to worry about another bush jesus or bin laden
and when the state comes to our door and see’s us all stoned dancing and fucking
we’d tell them to join in because there is no use in looking
they would put the handcuffs on us and that’s where the dream ends
but we wont be long but they’ll be back and we had better get some defence
so we better make some bombs and get some heavy fire power
but we’re all too busy getting stoned and fucking and all we have is flowers
but this is just a fantasy but its sometimes hard to forget
but the dreams in my head about a community still seems under threat

[MilitantAnarchist]

This is a poem i wrote a few months ago... i have dozens of poems but have only recently started to post any... but it looks like nobody even reads stuff in here, they really need to make a poetry thread all together... anyway its called The BNP Are Not Nazis... i got the idea one day when UKip had a table in town, and i accused them of being BNP and then a BNP supporter came over and say they are not BNP i am though... i called him a fucking nazi and he replied with THE BNP ARE NOT NAZIS! HOW DARE YOU! and so on... then he claimed that they were just nationalist, but we are also alot like socialists.... Mmmm... i wrote this poem not long after that encounter......

The BNP Are Not Nazis
I used to think the BNP were just a bunch of Nazis
Then after listening to them I realised that they weren’t
I read their manifesto
I read their policies
I watched their public broadcasts
I listened to what the MP’s and MEP’s said
What I read and saw and heard was pathetic propaganda
It was racist and it was sexist
It was xenophobic and homophobic
It was anti working class
It blamed everyone but ourselves

What I read and saw and heard was pathetic propaganda
It was bigoted and it was small minded
It was patriotic and nationalistic
It was ignorant and it was lies
The followers are inane, misguided and unintelligent
The followers are of no value to me
I used to think the BNP were just a bunch of Nazis
But now I know their not
The BNP are racists, sexists,
Homophobic’s, liars, cheats,
Xenophobic, patriotic, nationalists,
They are bourgeois ****s masquerading as working class
But the BNP are not Nazis

[RedAnarchist]

Dystopia

Silent system failing,
Dystopian futures born,
Finalise the labels of self,
Create the being of possibility

Endless murmurs,
Foreign whispers,
Stalking the memory,
Shadow on your thoughts

Species lost in confusion,
Language ended long ago,
Society that never started,
Culture dying in the fields

Lights that shine like moons,
Blind the eyes and prick the ears,
Cities become the founding clay,
Winds creep up the stairs

Utopian ideals vanish forever,
Replaced by the gloomy now,
As sea turns to land, land to sea,
The destruction of humanity.

[ZeroNowhere]

Too Late to say a Prayer

The land stares blindly past the immortelles,
Dusts of death engulf it, and fires
Burn no more; vermeil glitters,
Jesting with golden statuettes,
And death cloaked in hydromel.

Simoons sweep, and raise cadavers,
And guns, dripping with golden blood,
And coins fall to the ground as crud,
And haply later turn to gods; one can hear a susurrus,
As the stars look down on us,
Preparing tombs of madreperl,
In their nightly sanctum.

Fight! But it is too late
To take a stand, too late
To say a prayer, or reach for halcyon days,
Far too late; we are but mendicants,
Beggars of fate, and our cemetery's keepers.

Hope was strangled, until
Only its ghost holds sway,
And it feeds rats; our fate was sealed.
No mercy for the innocent,
And no salvation from the Saviour.

[Sleeper]

I wrote this poem. Am I supposed to put it in a blog instead?

"Early Sunday Morning"

The smoke curls around my mouth,
Indistinquishable;
Smoke, fog, my icy breath,
Blending, becoming one

One last drag,
My cigarette hits the ground;
Exploding,
Fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Wind, frost and naked trees,
A weeping willow that;
Sheds not a tear,
Uncaring.

Tracks from a child's sled,
The blizzard has not yet covered;
Discouragement,
As my uncaring step breaks the clean lines.

Two miles later,
"Now Entering City Limits";
A cheap restaurant,
The early morning crowd files in.

An inoperative smokestack,
A closed down factory;
Littered,
The ground with unused time cards.

The remains of a trash fire,
A dead man frozen in time;
Desolate,
He no longer saw reason to keep himself warm.

Graffiti at a bus stop,
A chalk outline;
Deaf and Mute,
As a church bell rings somewhere in the distance.


______

Note: I wrote this about a year ago. I've since thought of changing the title to, "Early Sunday Morning (In America)," but I just have this thing about not changing something when I am done with it.

[Angry Young Man]

I have to say, everything seems falsely connected, and this keeps repeating itself: something you notice, metaphor, what it does, adjective.

And on a less critical note, never, ever, bloody ever use the word mingle in a poem. It's the most vile word in the language

[Sleeper]

To your first sentence, that was intentional even though it doesn't go in that order every time.

I'm sorry you didn't like it.

What's wrong with the bloody use of the word mingle?

[Number 16 Bus Shelter]

I think Angry Young Man was slightly harsh there. But Mingle is one of those... ugh words. I can think of worse, though. It's a much too... (Sickeningly happy?) word.

I do like the use of imagery, it's incredibly evocative. I could see the scene unfolding chillingly in my head. Thank you for that. You gave me something.

A dead man frozen in time;
I really love this line.

My cigarette hits the ground;
Exploding,
A sparkler on the Fourth of July.
That verse has great potential. It feel like if you just change a single word, it could become brilliant. However I don't know which word. By themselves every line in that verse is perfect. *Shrug*

Anyway, just my thoughts,
I'm grateful for the ride this poem gave me. Brilliant.

[Number 16 Bus Shelter]

I couldn't find a stickied Poetry thread. If there isn't one could this get stickied please?
A thread to post your poetry. It can be, but doesn't need to be revolutionary. Happy Posting!!!:laugh:

[Number 16 Bus Shelter]

Here's one to start off. This isn't my style at all - and this came out of my head after a few nights with no sleep, and in the middle of some decidedly strange hallucinations. Enjoy.



$2.50 to travel the world



I wander dark, dark paths
to loose myself in bloody horizons
in the corner of the post office
the wolves bray
my spine tingles, my blood freezes
or so the letters say



$2.50 to travel the world
I charged it to my soul
guess I'm broke,
Send my dreams collect
I'll find another way



I dance with wolves
on the cinema screen
I lost myself in worlds
flat and green
I found the answer in a cross-word puzzle
but I don't know what it means



Inscribed in Greek
set in tarnished bronze
a door contemplates, dictates;
I'm going home
to where I've never been
to remember things
I've never seen



To play the devils advocate:
I'm chasing you to find regret
better than I thought
worse than they said



In the multiple choice
failed by spelling
I complained to the face of vanity
leaping on the table
I shouted my apologies



I've misplaced my sanity, I declared
Not every hero is pure
and we can't always be sure
that we want to win



they called the pigs
but the description doesn't fit me
I've fooled the cameras
I've fooled everyone
flipping burgers
but I'm really on the run.


Baby, I declared, I'm off to save the world



..

[Sleeper]

I think Angry Young Man was slightly harsh there. But Mingle is one of those... ugh words. I can think of worse, though. It's a much too... (Sickeningly happy?) word.

"Smoke, fog, my icy breath,
Blending, becoming one.

One last drag..."

I think I might actually like that better. The transition from becoming one to one last drag seems to flow pretty well and I was able to keep the last line of the first stanza at six syllables.

What do you think? Too cliche'?




I do like the use of imagery, it's incredibly evocative. I could see the scene unfolding chillingly in my head. Thank you for that. You gave me something.

A dead man frozen in time;
I really love this line.


Thank you very much for the compliment!



My cigarette hits the ground;
Exploding,
A sparkler on the Fourth of July.
That verse has great potential. It feel like if you just change a single word, it could become brilliant. However I don't know which word. By themselves every line in that verse is perfect. *Shrug*


"Exploding,
Fireworks on the Fourth of July"

What do you think?



Anyway, just my thoughts,
I'm grateful for the ride this poem gave me. Brilliant.

Thank you again!

[Sleeper]

Love it.

[Number 16 Bus Shelter]

"Smoke, fog, my icy breath,
Blending, becoming one.

One last drag..."

I think I might actually like that better. The transition from becoming one to one last drag seems to flow pretty well and I was able to keep the last line of the first stanza at six syllables.

What do you think? Too cliche'?
Cliché? No way. That flows really well. Excellent.


"Exploding,
Fireworks on the Fourth of July"

Sometimes, there is a thin line between a pretentious line and a brilliant one.
You err on the side of brilliance.
Too bad you're not English... Remember remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot


:lol:

[Number 16 Bus Shelter]

It shows off the side of me I want to keep secret... The side that belongs in psychiatric ward.

[Sleeper]

Thanks, again, Number 16 Bus Shelter, I'm glad you like the changes!

[Angry Young Man]

What's wrong with the bloody use of the word mingle?

It's one of the words I hate. Like fabric that's combed one way, when you brush it the other way, it pulls my facial muscles back. Sorry if I was harsh - I was only offering my honest criticism. I personally haven't had any inspiration at all in about a year, and even if I showed you some stuff from my fruitful period, it would probably be total cack.

But like Orwell said, never write something that's been written before

[RedAnarchist]

As we all know, the people of Haiti are currently trying to recover from a disaster that has killed hundreds of thousands and affected many millions more. This poem will most likely never be read in Haiti, where the literacy rate is just over 50%, where the average Haitian does not have access to the Internet and where people cannot live like we do, as they must survive in terrible conditions.

Quand la terre nous a tous bouleversés en pièces

When the land ended it's lazy slumber

When the dust grew higher than the palm tree

When the city fell to it's knees

Beau terrain marqué par la nature

A mother weeps under concrete tent

The final breaths of her dying child fade

She stays alone, waiting for the daylight

L'aide provient des terres riches d'outre-mer

And this warring planet stops and takes note

Of all the suffering, of all the destruction

Somehow Hollywood fades from sight

Une main descend et prend ses propres

And with the dust she is pulled away

Into the sunlight and camera glare

Newspaper flower of grey London

Le nombre de partis se lève chaque jour

The villages that fell like card pyramids

Deserted ghost houses haunt the living

And they know just who they have lost.

[Girl A]

The Monster
Feed him nuts and bolts
Feed him coke cans and rubber
Feed him clothing and clay and cotton
Feed him fine fabrics and cracked china
Feed him Sony, feed him Honda
We do not know why he eats
All we know is that we must feed him.

Feed him the work of nine year olds in contaminated factories
Seedy buildings crumbling from their insides
The cells of a vast body gather to feed the monster
To starve him would be to leave streams of bodies gathered in fields
And in the corners of suburban lanes
And to fight him would be to set the gun on yourself
Because there is not enough to kill it
So we continue to feed him.

Feminism
I was a phantom
A figment of a woman's imagination
Illuminated in the rare protest before she was sold
I tempted her to the thought there was something wrong

I grew, I became known
With every banner and every writing and every word
Everytime a girl went to a school
And whenever a clinic was opened
They are telling you that I died
That I died a decade or so ago from a disease they will not name

And despite all that I lived with, all I saw, all I did
They don't even wish to remember
But you remember
And know I will live until my work is done

So I am still breathing.

[Revolutionary Pseudonym]

I'm not really sure if revleft is the write place for this but …
I was writing some random stuff down and my friend said it was really good so I came home and polished it off and this is what I ended up with:

These moments are fleeting,
Our hearts gently beating.
Silently together in the darkness,
Screaming in the twilight.
Together we come, slowly meeting.

Pacingly 'gainst the torrent,
My love, your warrent pass'nt
Ever closer, always further.
Blinding echoes, a deathly rejection,
Cannot stop this forever current.

A chilling tongue, boiling presence.
Beauty lacks kin in your essence.
Infinitly tempted, never tamed,
My love for you, always there,
For you, for me, our life sentence.


I would very much like to hear what others think of it - please be honest.
There is kind of a story to it too:
boy meets girl, boy likes girl, boy asks girl out, she says no and kinda verbally rips him to shreds but he still fancies her cos she's good looking.

Please tell me if it's any good - as they always say "when your looking for critics never ask friends and family"

[rednordman]

I think it is a good poem. But I feel sorry for your friend. Ouch! Flipping heck, Who really tears someone to shreads just for asking them out?:crying:There is such a thing as tactfullness you know...

[RedAnarchist]

Just wrote this poem -

Religion, one opium of the huddled masses
An idea of equality, of freedom for lads and lasses
Strike the chains to free the poor working classes

A pair of German socialists, Messrs Engels and Marx
Wanted everything to be public, from hospitals to parks
Religion, one opium of the huddled masses

In the commune of Paris, hopes of a second French Revolution
Sadly they failed, and couldn't implement the ideas of workers salvation
Strike the chains to free the poor working classes

Still the ideaology moved on bravely through the times
Even though to it's name stuck some dreadful crimes
Religion, one opium of the huddled masses

When 1917 arrived, the tsar was toppled and soon he died
Yet no formerly oppressed worker or serf cried
Strike the chains to free the poor working classes

After Lenin died, and Russia fell under Joseph's spell
An iron fist to rule the land, and they knew it would not end well
Religion, one opium of the huddled masses
Strike the chains to free the poor working classes

[The Vegan Marxist]

Let's Get Organized

Chairman Mao showed me the possibilities of a rural revolt,
And the Soviet Union showed me the possibilities of an urban assault.
I looked past all the deaths & the fact that it was violent,
And I saw the great success that was noble & valiant.
Let's organize for freedom, fuck the rich, arm the homeless,
Down with the revisionists, truth stands, grab a witness.
This is where we stand, stand up & show what you stand for,
Sickles in the air, hammers in the air, now demand for more.
Organize the community, the community is your family,
Show them what happens when we live freely, down with calamity.
Whatever happened to me will happen to you, get down with the cause,
The time is now for revolution, strike now, for there is no pause.

[Nietzsche's Ghost]

I can’t seem to write
A verse tonight.
And though paltry
This may be
I made a promise
And a promise I
Always keep
So this is the poem
I’m writing now
Sitting on the ground
Back to the wall
In the house where
Started it all
Started the first day
Of my life.
A dancing star
Shot across
The sky above an
Icy mountain peak
Where I dwelled
For what seemed an eon
Like Zarathustra I knew
Then that I had
Had enough of my solitude
So I descended
Eager to share
And be shared to
Never before had
I wanted in earnest
To keep any promise
I despised all
Before my eyes
But the star played
A dancing song
And a night song
And a full of life song
And thus began
The beginning of my life.



Ruthless criticism is demanded. Thank you.

[Evil Dead]

Here's poem I wrote about boneheads:

Storm

A storm is brewing
A Storm of hate a fear
A Storm is rising
A storm of hate for queers

I hear it coming
The Storm of Hate for Blacks
The storm is coming
The storm of hate for what you lack

The Storm must be stopped
If we are to advance
We must use our strength
To give humanity a chance

[¿Que?]

Here's a short paragraph on Marx and Meaning.

When our body is exhausted, and we become cognizant that these are our last moments, we will not look back on capitalism as having offered any meaning. But it has. Everything that we have ever found meaningful has erupted from our mode of production. Everything meaningful in our lives is a transgression against material necessity.

[Y Chwyldro Comiwnyddol Cymraeg]

Short Story

Flame

Dai slowly exhaled the last puff of his Marlboro Menthol before pressing the send button on his mobile. Sighing as he crushed the remainder into the ash tray. Pocketing his phone, wallet, fags and lighter before one last self-conscious look in the mirror. He made his way down his street and turned right into the labyrinth of one-way streets crammed with PVC clad terraced houses.

In the corner of Henbwll Rugby Club Baz sipped at his pint as the vibration in his pocket grabbed his attention. Even when he was waiting for a text the vibration always managed to shock him.

New Message
Dai
On Way

Baz took a long sip of his pint before concluding that, yes, it was a good thing that Dai was joining them, after all, he’d always liked him even after everything that had happened. Draining his glass as he stood from the table, “Dai’ll be here now in a minute boys” he said before turning sharply towards the bar. He still heard them though.
“Christ here we go…that fu&*%!g queer”

At that point the door opened and Dai poked his head around the corner; scanning the room. Ignoring the boys, who sat in the corner busy discussing the tits on some girl Dai thought, he walked straight up to Baz at the bar. Pausing before placing his hand on his shoulder.
“You alright?”
Baz glanced quickly to the corner before replying.
“Yeah not bad. What you ‘avin?”
“Oh, pint of Guinness ta.”

Carefully walking with his second pint in his hand Baz, with Dai in tow, reached the table as the boys where rising.
“We’re pushing off Baz, gonna grab some food then head home” mumbled Johnny; without acknowledging Dai at all.
“See you John” Dai’s comment was met with the back of Johnny’s head and snigger from the boys.

Having finished his pint Baz looked at his phone for the fifth time in twenty minutes, looking for a chance to leave.
“Right, I owe you one. Bow?”
Baz hesitantly nodded his head, his scruffy, sandy hair flicking forwards. He reached into his pocket and fished for his tobacco, skins and lighter. Rolling, staring into space. The minutes passed. A pint had appeared; as had Dai.

“You coming out to smoke that or just going to sit there and fiddle with it?”

Baz stood, silently following Dai out the back to the so called “smoking terrace”. This consisted of one rotten bench that no one dared sit on and an ash tray precariously perched on the windowsill. The bins glistened in the late night drizzle under the dull street lights. Dai light his fag then extended his lighter towards Baz’s face. As he light his cigarette Dai saw the confusion; the pain and the fear in his eyes, flickering under a disposable lighter’s flame. Shit, it can’t be easy with his Dad being the way he and him being, well… gay.


Dai peered through squinting eyes at the Bob Marley poster staring down at him as he lay in bed, fumbling for his cigarettes.
“Dai, breakfast’s ready if you want it.”
Having stumbled downstairs, he settled down with the paper and a croissant that his mum served.
“There’s green-tea in the pot if you want it, darlin’”
“I’ll have coffee I think…”
“It’ll have to be instant, ‘fraid.”

Dai wasn’t listening. He had his head buried in the paper. He wasn’t reading though. He knew that Baz was just a friend but that didn’t stop him thinking about him. Fantasising about him? They’d been neighbours before Baz’s mum died and his dad last the plot, but he only lives down the road now.



Baz walked into the kitchen and was greeted with a grunt from his father who dominated the cramped kitchen whilst sat at the table with an over-flowing ashtray. Baz walked to the sink that was drowning in greasy water and grubby plates. Fishing the take-away cartons from the oily liquid he sent a plate crashing to the ground. Curses were spat at him form a cloud of his fathers smoke.
“@!#%’s sake mun, my ‘ead is fuckin’ poundin’ as it is you dull twat”
“And why is that?” Baz goaded his father spitefully as he dangled the empty whisky bottle above the table.
“Some old mates called ‘round last night and...”
“Who, Jack Daniels or Johnny Walker?”
Baz felt the back of his fathers hand just as he turned to bin the bottle. He was ten years old again.
“Cheeky c**t, if your mother could hear you now…just cos you’re playing for the firsts now don’t mean I cant smack ‘ew one”. Baz said nothing. Stood, motionless for half a minute with a tear in his eye before marching to the front door muttering under his breath. His father reached for the Cutters Choice and giggled to himself as he rolled. “Fuckin’ girl!”

Saturday. Match day. Dai was ‘umin’ and ‘arin’ about going to the club that evening. He didn’t play rugby and all the others did and felt, as always, an outsider.But he was drawn like a moth to the place once he heard the music and shouting. They’d obviously won and hopefully wouldn’t notice his presence. And after all, Baz was bound to be there.

Once again he poked his head around the door like a startled rabbit emerging from a burrow. This time he entered unnoticed and slunk to the bar, ordering a Guinness. He stared at the magic liquid as it settled; the bubbles appearing to move downwards. Enthralled or just glad to have something to concentrate on to stop his eyes darting around the room in a paranoid frenzy?

Dai finally pulled himself away from the bar and glanced around to see Baz standing on the table with a shoe, apparently full of beer cupped in his hands like communion wine. Nervously wandering over, one of the village bikes explained that Baz was Man of the Match and this is a club ritual apparently. Placing his pint down Dai dared to clap along with the rest of the bar as they chanted songs at Baz.

Within the hour everyone was plastered, Dai although not that drunk acted so. Baz, placing his arm around Dai shouted in his ear because of the music.
“Fag?”
In the sanctity of the smoking terrace Dai relaxed, drawing the icy mentholated smoke into his lungs. Watching Baz struggle to remove a paper he offered him a ciggy. Baz took it an winked a thank you. Suddenly the music of the Full Monty came on…
“You coming in Dai?”
“Umm, I don’t think my presence would be welcomed during this particular song.”
“Dai, they don’t mean it really, Johnny and them just don’t know many gays that’s all…”
“They know one pretty well”
This could be it, Dai thought to himself. Baz sighed as Dai stepped towards him. “Not now Dai, Christ in the fu&*%!g club, you dull or wa’? Look Dai back off will you…”

Johnny turned to the table of the boys and shouted: “Where’s Baz?”, to blank faces.
“They’re putting the Full Monty on and Man of the Match leads it.” Having scanned the room and checked the bogs he made his way towards the smoking terrace.
“I bet that poof’s with him.” He paused just out of site, but could hear it.

“…Look Dai, back off will you ….”

“Get your queer hands off him. You tried it on with the wrong bloke you bent bastard!” thundered Johnny as his fists rained down on Dai’s head. Baz stood, powerless; like a ten year old again. Then ran. How much had he heard? He pegged it down the alley, past the fairground and up to the park. Dai lay trembling on the floor, mumbling for mercy as a boot took the air from him. His fag lay, glowing in front of his bloody nose.
“To remind you to keep your ‘ands to yer’ self..” Johnny grabbed the cigarette as it’s glowing embers rained on Dai’s hair. He held Dai’s wrist so tight it turned limp and white. Slowly and calmly Johnny stabbed the cigarette into the palm of Dai’s hand; who didn’t have the air in his lungs to scream. Feeling the spit land on his face and hearing the door shut he scrambled to his feet and stumbled up the alley.


How long had he been wandering, bloody and wet? An hour, two, three? Looking around and recognising the park by Baz’ house. He saw a figure hunched over a bench, head in hands. Baz?
“Baz?” Dai could speak no more and sat, in silence on the bench next to him. Wiping the crusted blood off his weary, beaten face he reached for his cigarettes, with his one good hand. Under the lighters flame he saw the tears in Baz’ eyes still fresh. Turning Baz placed his arm around Dai’s shoulder and drew him close. Yes, this was it, Dai thought.

[Nihilist_Pig]

Void

With sluggish tongues we kiss
And slowly drift away
Towards the end of the blue road
Where, with utmost respect
I tell you: 2+2=5
You laugh and stab me in the heart.

With putrid hands we touch
And lick each other's thumbs
Here, under the dying oak
Where, with utmost respect
I tell you: The grey sky is orange.
You laugh and take my eye out.

We sit and smoke
Under the dead oak
In the end
Of the blue road
Where, before
I say anything,
You cut out my tongue.
And walk away.

[pdcrofts]

Fast Forward. He couldn’t get the words out of his head, they were the worst kind of trouble you could get into, the government’s number one enemy. Murder of an Enforcer was much more serious than any crime against a civilian, what if they tried to pin it on him? Miscarriages of justice were alarmingly frequent. He was furious with himself for not turning to leave as soon as the smash-up began.
Ben reached his apartment block at three o’clock in the morning. The street outside was deserted and silent. As he walked through the vandalised lobby, Ben glanced up at the CCTV camera recording his arrival. He opened the door to the apartment slowly so as not to make a noise and crept down the hallway in the dark, navigating around the clutter by memory. Entering his bedroom, Ben crept into bed so as not to wake his sister.
There was no chance of getting to sleep, he lay awake while his brain went over the problem again and again. Still he came no closer to the answer he wanted: the certainty that he would not be blamed for the murder. Ben’s mind was like a computer program stuck in a loop and he had to make a conscious effort to break the cycle. He tried to calm himself, there was no way they could pin this on him. They had plotted an escape route that avoided the CCTV cameras. Eventually, Ben convinced himself he wouldn’t get pulled in.
After two hours, exhaustion caught up with him and he began to fall asleep. His last thoughts were half in dream and half in consciousness. He wondered why Stude had taken the time to make him feel welcome and introduce him to new people. That wasn’t normal behaviour, Ben wasn’t used to someone going out of their way for a stranger. Then he remembered he had saved Stude from being hit by the security guard, saved his life, perhaps. With that, Ben fell fully asleep. In his dreams Ben saw the street being smashed up again, but this time he joined in. He was whirling around with a baseball bat in his outstretched arm, smashing everything in reach. Then he heard the sirens and the others began to run, but Ben found that no matter how hard he tried, he could only run in slow motion. Soon the Enforcers were at the scene, shouting at Ben as they ran toward him.
The shouting continued even as the dream faded away. Enforcers were barking orders louder and louder. Ben woke suddenly. The shouting carried on. A loud bang came from the front door and he heard people entering the apartment. Their footsteps were heavy and their motion clumsy, Ben could hear them knocking things over as they came along the hallway. He knew they were Enforcers. They shouted continuously, telling everyone to lie on the floor. Linda had awoken and was screaming, she ran around to Ben’s side of the room and cowered by his bed.
Ben’s first thought was to give himself up immediately and stop this frightening ordeal for his family. He told Linda to hide under the bed and then darted out into the hallway, announcing his name and shouting for the Enforcers to stop.
‘All right, all right, I’m here!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got me!’
As Ben emerged from the bedroom, he came face to face with a man in a black balaclava. The Enforcer reacted swiftly, grabbing Ben and pushing him to the floor. Ben found himself flat on his stomach, with both arms held behind his back.
‘Stay down, don’t move,’ he was told. The Enforcer twisted Ben’s head to the side and thrust the barrel of a pistol against his cheek, then squinted to see his face in the darkness. Ben was petrified but thought at least the team would back off, now they had him. To his horror, he heard them carry on down the hallway into his parents’ bedroom.
Esme had moved right up against the back of the bed, as far from the door as she could get, and was cowering with the duvet pulled right up to her neck. She screamed when three intruders entered the bedroom, pointing guns at her husband. Jack was out of bed, ready to confront them, but the Enforcers were tall and powerfully built, clad in bulky armour; Jack was naked and vulnerable. One of the team grabbed him and thrust him to the floor while another shone a torch in his face.
‘Positive ID, Jack Principal,’ the Enforcer shouted.
Esme was screaming uncontrollably, but the Enforcers ignored her as they handcuffed her husband. In a distraught voice, Jack implored the Enforcers to tell him what was going on. Panic set in as it became clear they were going to take him away. Jack cried out that there must be some mistake, but no one responded. As they hauled Jack out of the room, Esme became hysterical, leapt out of bed and tried to grab her husband.
‘Don’t take him!’ she shouted, before being pushed away forcefully, causing her to fall backwards over the bed.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ screamed Jack in a frightened voice.
‘You’re being apprehended,’ someone replied from behind a balaclava.
‘What for?’ cried Jack helplessly, but no one answered him. ‘I haven’t done anything. This is a mistake!’
The Enforcers carried out their orders like robots: unfeeling, uncaring and unable to listen to reason. They rapidly retreated from the apartment, dragging Jack with them. Two Enforcers bundled him out of the front door, while a third tried to stop Esme from following, but she wouldn’t be restrained. Still in her nightgown, Esme ran down the stairs, screaming her husband’s name at the top of her voice. The fourth officer remained in the apartment, holding Ben down on the floor. When the rest of the team had exited, the Enforcer sprung up and marched quickly out of the apartment, leaving Ben behind.

Full story can be read for free on GoogleBooks:
http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=4zvTXEMgSj0C&lpg=PP1&pg=PP1#v=onepage&q&f=false

[pdcrofts]

Short Story

Flame

Dai slowly exhaled the last puff of his Marlboro Menthol... <SNIP>

It's good to see some writing of substantial length posted here, I enjoyed reading it. You say it's a short story, but there seems to be plenty of scope to expand it - have you written any more?

[Y Chwyldro Comiwnyddol Cymraeg]

It's good to see some writing of substantial length posted here, I enjoyed reading it. You say it's a short story, but there seems to be plenty of scope to expand it - have you written any more?


Glad you enjoyed it. :) I wanted to end it with soomething a bit more, intimate between them but it was way too cheesy so it may see, a bit of an abrubt ending!
Well my intention was to get something down and then go back and expand but never really had the time. I seem to get an idea, jot it down and then take an age to actually turn it into prose.

[RedAnarchist]

Perhaps

He never got out of the bathtub.

Three hours and two minutes of lying naked in the bone-dry plastic boat, anchored to the bathroom floor. His eyes, a rich brown, would stray for hours around the bathroom, observing every shadow that the intruding sunlight created, watching as the room became dark, then light as the sun and moon danced around the Earth outside. Sometimes he would sit up and contemplate using what little energy he had left to climb out of the bathtub, but he would soon be lying down again, his by now greasy brown hair a makeshift pillow.

"Is the plan to lie there for the rest of your breathing seconds?," A voice would reply from behind the bathroom door. Female, young and by now the sound of a forgotten friend or relative. He concluded that she lived in the house with him, and imagined what she looked like and what her name could be.

"Perhaps," he would whisper, a couple of seconds after the memory of her voice started to fade, and he counted the footsteps as her shoe-clad feet knocked on floorboards. He knew she would come back at some unscheduled time in the future and ask the exact same question, in the exact same voice and tone, and with the exact same indifference.

Three days and two hours of lying naked in the bone-dry plastic bath, and the bathroom door had creaked open slowly. He assumed that it was the female who asked him the question over and over with no real concern for what the answer would be. He couldn't see her from where he was in the tub, and he had no desire to peer over the synthetic fence he was surrounded by. It was if he didn't want to know anything about the voice that he couldn't hear, or couldn't imagine in his mind – the illusion of this stranger and potential loved one that he had forgotten all those hours ago seemed so much better than the truth he would be facing if he did decide to look at her.

He expected her to say something, but the door soon closed shut again, and he noticed how delicate the operation had been. She could have slammed it, even swung it to and fro a couple of times before closing the door, but all she did was to quietly and slowly drag it though the air that smelled of soap and deodorant.

"Perhaps not," he told himself in a whisper, before his mind wandered off to some urgent fantasy that required his full attention.

Nine days, three hours and two minutes of lying naked in the bone-dry plastic bath, and he was feeling hungry. Thirst had been no problem – there was a tap above his head, and all he needed to do was to turn it so that the cool water slipped out in a tiny stream from tap to open mouth. Contemplating the potential taste and health benefits of a bar of dry soap, he decided that it was better not to think about the hunger and to return to the thoughts that had kept him within the confines of his white cell.

"Still alive?," the female voice, which had not bothered to speak for some days, spoke to him. The voice was weary now, as if his hunger affected her, and he wondered if it was his anima talking to him and not some friend behind the door. He wondered if she wanted to know because she cared for him, or because she needed the bathroom and had gotten sick of using public toilets and the neighbour's bathroom.

"Perhaps," he spoke, slightly louder than he had done, and he could tell that he had startled the voice behind the door. Concerned, he sat up and looked at the wooden door that seperated him from her. He remembered it was painted white, although it was currently the middle of the night so the colour looked like a grey.

"Perhaps," he spoke again, this time in a whisper, and he could hear the footsteps again. Having confirmed his status to the voice, it appeared as if she had no time for conversation, and had vanished once more into what he could only assume was the rest of the house. Any memory of what existed beyond that door was fading fast, although it was nothing to worry about for him. His bath-tub was all the world he needed for his body, because his mind was a planet of its own.

Thirteen days, nine hours and three minutes of lying naked in the bone-dry plastic bath, and the hair on his head and face had begun to crawl into his mouth, his eyes, his ears and nose. His skin was becoming sore and itchy, and the lack of food was hurting his body. Inside his head, however, life continued as normal, as if his brain was unaware of any such bodily suffering.

Expecting the voice to speak to him at that moment, he was confused to hear silence. Thinking he had gone deaf, he pushed away the hair from his ears and listened carefully, but is she ahd spoken to him, she was in no mood to repeat herself.

"Perhaps?," he asked quietly, his voice weak and sounding almost childlike. He hoped to get the voice to reply, but the silence – the silence was a sure sign that the voice was not there anymore, and he wondered if the world had gone. If he were to get out of the bath-tub, which was a close to impossible task in his condition, and if he were to open the bathroom door, what would he find?

He never got out of the bathtub.

[Aloysius]

p { margin-bottom: 0.08in; } I have no idea what I'm doing here. This place is unfamiliar, yet I know it like the back of my hand.
I am lost.
My eyes can look, but they can't see. I can hear, but listening is a most difficult thing to do.
The light dims, then other appears, slightly dull.
Sounds, noisy chatter surrounds me...
I can see now. Listening is becoming ever more easy.
My head clears, like the fog in the early morning fades in the noon.
There are people...Familiar faces chattering to me, or rather, at me...
I talk back, thoughtlessly...do they understand what I say?
I am lost.
But there is face that seems to shine brighter than the rest...A free face, one that seems not to care...
Maybe...Just maybe...
Perhaps there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps we're doomed to walk along in the darkness with nothing but your thoughts and memories, memories of things that could've happened, memories of things that never will.

[Quetzal]

I just did an ATTEMPT to write some shit down... :blushing:
I did it in english, but i don't know if the spelling is correct.
If not, fuck it! Thats my artistic freedom :p

*Untitled* (for now...)

One sorrow brain see two troublous eyes through a mirror of lackness.
Just another Human Being caught up in our contemporary times.
Handicaped by agony, Still Better than sufffering from Apathy?
Floating by with gallant agitation.

Common hopes disappear in different approaches.
Experiences lost in knowledge,
Wisdom sacrified for commerce.
Species and cultures killed by interests.
Not Mine.
Third eye open!

Saw the day by dawn, Behold a ray of galaxies and wondered...
forgotten myself along the way in Search for unbearable meaning

Thoughts celebrating around my mind
Ideas created by unspoken subjectives
Questioning, why?
Dreaming, Why not?

Radical sceptic awareness woken up a huge magicly front
of frozen and unaware possibilities.

[StockholmSyndrome]

When I was young I used to imagine myself as an astronaut or a soldier, paving the way for the progress of the USA. Little boys love to play war. You can be a general or lieutenant leading a platoon of brave and loyal troops to their inevitable victory. Victory is inevitable in the game of war because nobody actually dies. You just get back up and pretend to be somebody else.

Get back up and pretend to be somebody else.

[TheGodlessUtopian]

Here's my persuasion essay on capitalism.

CAPITALISM
“Imperialism is the highest stage of capitalism”
-V.I Lenin.

Truer words could not have been spoken. Capitalism is a curse; blighted ideals warped by avarice. Throughout its practicethis ideology has brought nothing but pain, torment, loss, and death. I believe this twisted concept can be broken down and explained by chronicling capitalism’s base theory, history, and social impacts. Explaining such a construct often takes a philosopher, and though I myself am not one, I shall attempt to detail how our present system is terribly flawed and due to collapse. I earnestly believe our salvation lies within the erection of a people’s government, a nation which caters to individuals instead of profits.
The quarterly reports, however, are the entrepreneurs’ prime concern. This is due to capitalism’s base directive-“make money,”a demand which inevitably leads to exploitation, division, and numerous other evils. In turn these results “morph” an otherwise beautiful world, into a monstrous beast-one which is capable of devouring all that is good. Beastly is but a single word to describe capitalism’s effects, and an appropriate word it is, for nothing positive comes from one group of individuals taking advantage of another. Why does the bourgeoisie scam their laborers out of decent pay? Why do they refuse to offer benefits like dental and medical insurance? Why do they impose grueling work schedules with meager wages? And finally, why does the capitalist belittle their sentient life blood? All of these questions produce the same answer: to maximize profits. Many of them possess a strong avarice which leads them to cheat decent people from adequate pay checks. The result of all this economic debauchery is the owners pockets filled with dollars while the employee is left with a growling belly.
Hardworking people going hungry, is a sign that means trouble. This dysfunction is usually derived from several sources-such as unemployment and underemployment-yet a single cause stands out: division. Division is the prime negative within our world. Race, religion, creed, appearance, class, nationality, and sexual orientation are all employed against the blue collar worker, in an attempt to drive a wedge between co-workers, as well as society at large. The ruling class bourgeoisie perpetuates the various myths or “deficiencies” of the variety in order to solidify their control; thereby preventing the working class from organizing. What happens when the oppressed masses unite? Most often-unionization. With unions present the capitalist need to watch their backs, for, unions fight for their members. Higher pay, health insurance, and more time off are some of the benefits demanded by the leaderships of such organizations. Facilitating employees in such a manner, however, is not in the interests of the money hungry bourgeoisie. So, in their insatiable desire for every dollar, they use every dirty trick in the book: racism, discrimination, legal documentation, and others. The result of all this “below the belt” fighting,” is a community bitterly divided and certain individuals fired due to paranoia and bigotry. No job equals no cash. No cash equals no food…no food equals misery. This is the reality of capitalism theory: maximize profits at the world’s expense.
Increasing the profit margin on the quarterly report has a deep, rich history. Only this history is not for the squeamish. Bloodshed; war, mass executions, with slavery, hypocrisy along with many other vices such as neo-colonization dwell within the back story of capitalism-a legacy ripe with conflict.
War, or armed conflict, has always been with humanity in one form or another. Throughout the ages, humanity has hacked, slashed, and bombed away at each other-the reasons different, yet, the root cause the same: capitalism. Killing is a profitable business-one which the ruling class zealously follows. Our entire history as a nation was built on death; from the revolution to Iraq. This is because of the economic expansion that occurs when the massed forces of the United States (the largest conventional military machine in the world) is ordered into action; the longer the conflict, larger the profits. Whenever such a declaration is made nothing but pain and sorrow follow the procession of flag draped coffins. This endless carnage is then aided by historical revision and American Exceptionalism-concepts that not only praise America for her “greatness,” but also justify future bellicosity.
Aggression towards foreign nations is a fundamental part of capitalism. Every country has a market, and since most nations are capitalist, this often equates to conflict. Under capitalism all nations are forced to fend for themselves; governments must provide for their citizens or risk being overthrown. Providing means acquiring precious resources-timber, coal, oil, diamonds, wheat, etc. When a country does not posses the needed commodity, they look elsewhere. Searching out the desired resource means trading when such an area is found. Territorial neighbors often provide the perfect target; close and nearby as they are. However, what if the locals refrain from trading? What is to be done? That answer is war-invasion! Once the conflict is decided, the victor then finds themselves in possession of a great deal more people, territory, and natural resources than before.
Once the conquered nation is firmly integrated into the conquering rival, the victorious leadership finds that his nation has undergone not only strife, but growth as well. This growth has stemmed from the non-stop manufacture of war making instruments: rifles, machine guns, tanks, warships and planes. These armaments than need ammunition, so bullets must then be produced, since warriors without a usable weapon is useless to the state, this is a vital step. However, before anything can be created, factories must be built to aid the swift production schedule which is demanded in war. To erect factories construction crews must be hired. Finally, once the newly constructed manufactories have ‘churned out’ the initial quota, all that is left are to recruit soldiers. Soldiers of course require a paycheck. This is the cycle of the market (…and the Military Industrial Complex): more spending, granting an increased economy.
What is the cost of all this spending? Many uncountable trillions assured, but I ask: what is the mortal price? The shocking answer exceeds those innumerable dollars. Hundreds of millions-if not billions of people; the gut wrenching statistics of those killed or mercilessly wounded by armed disputes.
You may be asking yourself: but how can so many people be murdered? In what conflict? The answers are always the same-Imperialism: otherwise known as capitalism. As for the conflicts…I shall list them one by one.
World War I : 19 million killed.
World War II : 60 million killed.
Vietnamese War: 4 million killed.
Korean War: 4.5 million killed.
Afghanistan and Iraq Wars: 1 million killed.
Iran-Iraq War: 500,000 killed.
With that short list of six wars over 78 and a half million people lost their lives-untold others were wounded. These terrible conflicts were all caused by capitalist greed, via either a need to prop up the economy or to try and overthrow a legally elected government which opposed monetary currencies. Spaced in between these tragedies are many other military interventions-all of which took place so as to create a better atmosphere for international commerce. I lack the words to properly explain, yet former Marine Corps General Smedley D. Butler found the perfect words…
"I spent 33 years and four months in active military service and during that period I spent most of my time as a high class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism. I helped make Mexico and especially Tampico safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefit of Wall Street. I helped purify Nicaragua for the International Banking House of Brown Brothers in 1902-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for the American sugar interests in 1916. I helped make Honduras right for the American fruit companies in 1903. In China in 1927 I helped see to it that Standard Oil went on its way unmolested. Looking back on it, I might have given Al Capone a few hints. The best he could do was to operate his racket in three districts. I operated on three continents."

He spoke those words after he had assessed his military career and found that he had essentially been a strong arm for American business conglomerates (evidently he felt horrid for being a glorified bully). This is the reality of the world: blood for money. The ultimate consequence is a mammoth-unknowable-amount of sorrow, despair, and bitterness. As awful as this reality is, the truth only grows darker, for the bloodthirsty imperialist will never rest-his appetite is unquenchable. The people, however, are satiable. This now brings us to revision, and how the conservatives will not stop until all youths are indoctrinated into their ultra-nationalist cult.
Education, the school system, is always the preferred tool of the rich warmongers. Textbooks and propaganda then serve as ammunition. Their targets you ask? Students-everyone who is old enough to read. They intend to transform ignorance into bigotry.
Continuity of the American Imperial Project is of the utmost importance to everyone who has a slice of the profit pie. This, however, is a different story to the everyday worker and student who desire nothing more than to be left alone in peace; meaning no oversees conflicts. These two goals obviously clash with each other to a rather significant degree. So the question is, among capitalists, how do you entice the toiling masses to die for your personal interest? Easy- by brainwashing them into believing in American Exceptionalism; the belief that America is a shining ray of light, wisdom, and enlightenment in an otherwise dark and primitive world- a ray which is never wrong. By instilling in youths the fascist ideology of American (white) superiority, is in effect teaching them that no matter what ‘her’ actions are, America is never wrong, and acts only to preserve world peace (…via bombing all dissenters). Once Exceptionalism has been established, and the ignorant students’ joyfully sallow such garbage without question, Heroification of important-key-figures begins. This concept strips legendary individuals of their faults and leaves only the “good”. As such, while Heroification is active, the student learns of Abraham Lincoln’s “Emancipation Proclamation,” while forgetting about his blatant White Supremacy (“I am not, nor ever have been in favor of bringing about the social political equality of the white and black races-that I am not nor ever have been in favor of making voters or jurors of Negroes”-- Lincoln during the Lincoln’s-Douglass debate). He (the student) learns of George Washington’s desire to form a freed nation, while forgetting that he was a slave owner until he died, and that he was a brazen elitist.
Such a system destroys who these figures really were- leaves them a hollow, boring shell. Using these practices, the ruling class is then able to justify any and all aggression. After all, who other than evil-doers would threaten a nation who has done nothing wrong? No one other than world conquering brutes is who!.. at least if you listen to the government. These revelations may have shocked you, but before you rant or rave, remember this simple fact: This comes from the same ideology which kidnapped over 50 million Africans (half of the continent’s population) and then tried to pander it off as progress. I believe that it is referred to as a “trade.” Disgusting.
Revolting is another term one could use to describe capitalism. Yet even this word does not carry enough weight-for there is more filth to come! Aside from war, division, and massive suffering, capitalism has more social ramifications. One such effect is the gross unequal division of wealth. Within the United States, the top 1% owns more than 90% of the country’s wealth, while the bottom 99% controls less than 10%. That is many billions of dollars-a dizzying amount of power. What does such a minority do with this influence, this fortune? They buy senators and important community activists/ figureheads, so as to continue their decadent lifestyle. This practice is not only inexcusable and unethical, but also corrupts an already corrupt system. When not stealing votes, the super-rich indulge their material compulsions and purchase private jets, massive tracts of private land, mansions, exquisite diamonds, and personal servants. They perform such financial abominations while at the same moment millions of people the world over starve to death (despite the fact that we have recently harvested enough grain/wheat to feed over 12 billion people). Why do the extravagantly financed spend their money subverting the system, while in the richest country on Earth, a great many thousands beg to eat?
This is due to the elites’ proposition to callous indifference to the bleak fact that within a capitalist society food products are produced, not to feed people, but to generate a profit. The elite sickening desire for maximum revenue then leads them to so something unspeakable. While millions starve, the capitalists lock away the excess –unsold-food within large warehouses to rot! Why do they do this? It is done because from a business perspective, it is better to allow unpurchased food to expire, than it is to sell it at a loss. This is but one of the obscene results of capitalism within our world. For more warped facts one could delve into the capitalists’ attitude towards the homeless, consumer safety, or the environment (just to name a few). No sector of our civilization is safe from their ravenous appetite. So we must do the only action we are capable of performing-we resist and fight!
Fighting the injustices of the capitalist mode of production is a task many dedicated people, including Vladimir Lenin, have undertaken. They sought to banish all the hopelessness and misery which manifested itself upon the ruling class’s whim. Many have stood in opposition to its exploitation, abuse, carnage, theory, history, and characteristics. I have just explained to you the true face of capitalism as its various evils work together as one. Now, at his hollowed hour, my convictions still stand strong and tall: we need a new government-a total replacement. What we need is a body which ensures the citizenry instead of murdering them. We need a socialist revolution!

[Ele'ill]

Victory is inevitable in the game of war because nobody actually dies. You just get back up and pretend to be somebody else.

Get back up and pretend to be somebody else.

And now as adults we have CoD and l4d2

[Fawkes]

This thread needs reviving, especially after Mari3l's thread.

Anyway, here's a portion of an uncompleted song I wrote. As of now it is untitled.

Also, keep in mind it is a song meaning the lyrics are sung, not necessarily read, so it comes across differently in this format


If a Woolf/wolf can cry from under a river
Some weight in/on my coat could fight every shiver
The only denial is what you can't see
But I'll still sit for a while staring at me

I've always wondered how it would feel
When I want me standing my body just kneels
If every second was just like my first
Then every decision wouldn't be rehearsed

[Fawkes]

Here's another, also currently untitled.

I hear the drowning of these
Four little fingers
and the taste of the singers
and the view of it lingers
And I feel the longing of the
cute little angel
and the smell of the strangler
and the shock of the stranger

Sometimes I wanna take a hose from my car
And stick it in through the far
side And see you all at the hole side

Sometimes I wanna drape these pages in ashes
From the sick color clashes
Of the dripping eyelashes

And in the morning when I wake up and see this
I know I'll already be this
So just breathe in my weakness

The song itself isn't actually structured just like this, in between some of the verses there's a lot of random screaming and just weird sounds I make with my mouth

[Fawkes]

Here's one more (for now)


This one had a title, but I don't like it anymore

A rose is still a rose
Despite the color of your nose
But the greatest prose
Can't save a rose
That fades to black
Despite all those
Attempts to bring it back
So every story goes

And with every story's ending
Comes a brand new understanding
That every great flight comes to a landing
Leaving you standing
Wondering, at a loss
For what was branded as your own

And it's not that I for one don't too much
Enjoy the feeling of another's touch
It just seems when I engage in such
Actions the reactions
Leave me worse than when I'd began

Since I don't enjoy too much camaraderie
I just dance to the macabre
And I've oddly found
The sound of no other's voice
Not inducing a bit lonely



Any theatre nerds out there may recognize the opening line as being from Finian's Rainbow

[Red Bayonet]

god is dog
smelt
backwards and barfing

[ÑóẊîöʼn]

I was originally going to post this in a thread in Chit-Chat, but I got into it and thought there might be a more suitable thread like this:

With the first Ice Age of the Early Anthropocene, which crushed the Second World-City beneath its flanks sending the former inhabitants fleeing from the planet, the role of postDiluvian neo-Borganist cybertechnocracy as a dominant strain of ideology among mindkind had come to an end.

http://i78.photobucket.com/albums/j99/NoXion604/SecondWorld-City.jpg
The Second World-City

The onset of the Long Winter was about a decade, a geological instant, mighty glaciers racing from each pole to meet at the equator, yet to humanoid eyes invisibly inching implacably forwards. While they could be held back with the focused rays of orbital mirrors and microwave-power satellites, this was a temporary solution at best, with the titanic rivers of ice inexorably flowing around any protected areas.

http://i78.photobucket.com/albums/j99/NoXion604/solar2_brill.jpg http://i78.photobucket.com/albums/j99/NoXion604/sunsattn_1_-384x283.jpg
Left: An orbital mirror
Right: A microwave power satellite

With widespread problems - especially since outdoor cultivation became nigh-impossible - increasing amounts of Earth-born minds migrated off-world, some taking torchships to nearby stars with habitable planets, some moving to the ancient cities of long-terraformed Mars, but most moving to ringed Venus, a hell-world made verdant in recent history, its socio-cultural star ascending as it absorbed some of the best minds that an increasingly-dormant Earth had to offer.

http://i78.photobucket.com/albums/j99/NoXion604/VenusAscendant.jpg
Venus Ascendant

The centuries passed as Earth remained locked in its glacial state, all abandoned save for a handful of diehards scraping out an existence across the ice plains and exposed mountain tops, and a small number of artificial oases kept warm and green for sentimental and political purposes.

http://i78.photobucket.com/albums/j99/NoXion604/EarthStation.jpg
Earth's Hub Station remained the largest single concentration of minds on or near Earth for many millennia over the Long Winter

In the end, the frosty grip of the glaciers was to slowly recede, in the process revealing a new landmass in the north Atlantic; in time it was of course named Atlantis. With the greening of the Earth, the New Atlanteans were sure to follow...

http://i78.photobucket.com/albums/j99/NoXion604/Atlantis.jpg
Earth at the tail end of the Long Winter, showing the new subcontinent of Atlantis

[ÑóẊîöʼn]

Nova Mundi gets its first fluff piece - The Grimoire of Irkutsk (http://www.revleft.com/vb/group.php?&do=discuss&groupid=688&discussionid=&gmid=38680#gmessage38680)!

[Fawkes]

This is a song/poem I wrote that is currently untitled:

If I try to elicit explicit
Reactions the actions lose traction
As fractions just miss it
Or twist it and form factions
Detached from the listed descriptions
Given and rescripted
Depicted as stories
Hallucinatory exchanges
With stranger than
Unrealistic deranges
With blame on the dangers
Of tame underagers
Destructed, corrupted, constructed
Through problematizing of normal existence
With uptake of every instance
Of vocal resistance to quiet subsistence

Now listen to methods
Through which all these lessons
Reflect on the stresses
Of mass coalescence
In essence a misunderstanding
A branding through faux comprehending
Expanding of dreams and desires
To which we aspire
Through liars depicted
On images given
To the lens of our eyes
Disguised as attainable
and Fully sustainable
But drainable of every emotion
Except for devotion
To a future perpetually deferred
But referred to as possible
Entirely plausible
Consumerist tendencies
Formulate all that we see

[Fawkes]

Another untitled one, this one is a song, so the part with the / means that the word(s) are pronounced in such a way that it could mean either:

Have you ever wanted to be everything that you ever could
And dreamed of all the things you've about and know you should
And drank 20,000 gallons just to make up your mind
That in spite of how you're living everything will be fine

Do you ever wake up in the morning as you head off to school
And break a previous expectation like prisoners and rules
Do you ever watch the stars and advertisements on your T.V.
It's attainable, no-brainer that that one could be me

Go to a club, blow some ecstasy and feel what you can't
Ghetto fabulous, fantabulistic dress-ups and dance
After whatever crazy encounters you make it on home
If you played it right that night no vomit you won't be alone
Wake up with a headache wonderin' what was their name
Say goodbye maybe a number for the score of the game
Eat some breakfast read a magazine you've already known
Get dressed for work head out the front door see that you're not alone

Dial the numbers in and let your mind wander far away
I'm blowin cocaine on an airplane to Japan for the day
I've fucked so many people Maxim's got me on their top list/topless
Occasionally overcome with fame it shows on your wrists
But that's okay because I bounce back and I'm right back on top
And when I'm hungry I punch out get something from the shop
And when I'm finished I walk back inside and get back to life
And dream even on my way home about my porn star wife

Eat my dinner, surf the internet, just passin' the time
And at the end of the day my whole life has played in my mind

[Fawkes]

This one's called "Bleach":

Suck everything out of me
Til I'm devoid of feeling
And emotion and laughter are fake crying
From the shell that's left of me


T.V. like bleach removes the pigment
From my mind and leaves me feeling
Happy, full, intelligent
Of thoughts with social relevance
Novellas read of grocery tabloids
Grossly leaves me feeling void
Devoid of why I need to be
Productive to society

I'm bleached

Five days a week I work my job
To buy the things I really want
And need if I'm supposed to be
What is expected out of me
And you seem like you're nice and cute
And I can really talk to you
About things to which I can relate
So why don't we start to date

We're bleached

Since no one has yet chosen you
I do what I'm supposed to do
And buy a big fat diamond ring
And ask if you will marry me
And you say "yes" and that "I do"
And as we get old I still like to
Do things I think will fill my mind
Like watch T.V. and read The Times

I'm bleached
My generation's bleached
Your generation's bleached

[Fawkes]

I am blowing up this thread. This one is called "Central Park Homeless":

Where's your home
When where you are
Is just where you wanna be
But you could never
Build a house
Cause all your memories
Were made and left in a place from which you
Ran so fast that you never got to
Realize the present
Before it become the past

You have no home

Well what do you do when you're all out of friends
No money, no job, no potential to win
You say that you were born to lose and maybe you're right
But don't use that as an excuse not to put up a fight
You don't know where you're goin but you know it's not
Where you came from
You'd kill to be anything
Anyone, just someone

You're all alone

You're home is in your mind
It's all those things that you've done
Those thoughts and memories
And every single one
Of those people that you knew
Even those who are long, dead, and through
They all still carry on
Their lives still live through you
And no one can touch you there
You're safe at that place inside where
Your friends are all home
Remember you're not alone

You're not alone

[Fawkes]

One more:

Woke up one morning with the sun comin down
Turned on the T.V. to see the news around town
It was a sketch of a boy
His face was roughly made
So he cut off his hair and he left for that place

Cause there's a place he can go where nobody knows
All the things that he's said and all the thoughts in his head
And he promised himself that by the end of the night
He'd either end up dead or in a hospital bed

Cause he knows
He knows...

He said "my father doesn't love me anyway
And my mother she's gone so far away
And he probably wouldn't even care if I died
So long as he's still got his car and his wife

So why do I try?
Why try?
Why not just die"

Went out one evening with the sun comin up
All out of money but with a little bit of luck
All the people behind him running, giving chase
Can never catch him if he can get to that place

Cause there's a place he can go where nobody knows
All the things that he's said and all the thoughts in his head
Well he promised himself that by the end of the night
He'd either end up dead or in a hospital bed

And he won't
No he won't
He won't

He won't talk about it
Talk about it
He doesn't want to talk about
He will never tell you why
Every time that he gets high
He hopes to god that he can die
And wonders why he's even alive
Alive
He won't tell you
He won't tell you
He ain't doin this for some reaction
He ain't a man of words he's a man of action

[Fawkes]

This is a song I wrote a while ago back in high school. It's not the type of thing I would do now, but I still like it due to it's nostalgic value:

Caught up in a small town you know we got
Nothin to do
It's just empty pharm bottles and fully open throttles
Boredom it rips right through the empty
Nights, take a walk down main street and it's
Desolate and quiet and in my
Anxious mind, I'm startin a riot
I tested it out
And I ain't buyin' it

Get me in a car
Drive me to Union Station

They said where do you wanna go
I just wanna go home
Get me on the next train to New York City
And even if all the roads are closed
I've just gotta get home
Get me on the next plane to New York City

It's the same in every single town
Across this whole damn nation
Full volume amplifiers screamin
High frequency frustrations


Yeah, not really the type of thing I do anymore, but whatever.

[Fawkes]

Last one, I promise. This one is really abstract bordering on nonsensical, as you can probably tell:

Take off this morning
Leave all the conscience that you need
And when you show up, as you go up, don't blow up
The counter on your sleeve
In a crowd you'll be singing
But alone you're on your knees
My body is written
But your slippin' on honesty

Where are you goin
What are you tryin to see
Why are you livin
They Should've played chastity
Why should I want you
What can you give to me
Now your life's showing
Through insecurities

Open your mind
It's as dark as the light can see
And it's gettin' bigger
Like a padlock fits the key
Your eyes not for winning
That's what your hand decreed

Shove me, please just touch me
Drug me, please don't love

[PhoenixAsh]

have you ever thought of putting your songs and poems to music?

[Fawkes]

have you ever thought of putting your songs and poems to music?

Yeah, some of them already are, others are in the process. None of them recorded yet though.

[PhoenixAsh]

cool. shame they are not yet. they are interesting but I always like to hear the emotions and thoughts through the music.

[Fawkes]

cool. shame they are not yet. they are interesting but I always like to hear the emotions and thoughts through the music.

Thank you. Yeah, a lot of the meaning behind them is lost when presented simply as text

[StockholmSyndrome]

I bought two screenwriting books at a used bookstore for $3 each. I thought I would try my hand at it. If nothing else, I can now appreciate films better when I watch them. Who knows, maybe it will inspire me to take up graduate studies?

[ColonelCossack]

yesterday yesterday yesterday
happiness happiness happiness
today today today
boredom boredom boredom
tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow
hopeless hopeless hopeless

Teacher: "that's a really nice poem, colonelkusak!"

Me: "poem? That's just me spelling corrections!"

:cool:

[Firebrand]

Thread necromancy in progress, I've got the black candles and the mystical sigals so here's a poem
I see you walking by in your long black coat
I see you walking by in your tall brown boots
I see you walking by in your short red dress
I can see that you’re going to impress

I see you walking by with your short blond hair
I see you walking by with your cold harsh stare
I see you walking by and I must confess
I believe you are going to impress

I see you walking by with your modern ideals
I see you walking by with your high powered career
I see you walking by like it’s you god blessed
I can tell you’ve got everyone impressed

I see you walking by with your killer heels
I see you walking by with your cut throat deals
And you step out there with your head held high
But while you’re walking by you never look me in the eye
You’re far too busy trying to impress

[Fawkes]

I bought two screenwriting books at a used bookstore for $3 each. I thought I would try my hand at it. If nothing else, I can now appreciate films better when I watch them. Who knows, maybe it will inspire me to take up graduate studies?

Check out Cinematic Storytelling by Jennifer Van Sijll. It does a great job at exposing various filming/editing techniques through the lens (no pun intended) of textual writing. She analyzes 100 different techniques and prints screen shots and descriptions to help in visualizing the final product while simultaneously showing excerpts from the original scripts so you can see how they translate from words on a page to sounds and images. Definitely a great book, especially if you come from a more literary background.

I've got mad respect for straight screenwriters, it's a really difficult thing to do well. I mean, I write scripts, but only for movies I intend on producing myself which is a lot easier I think (you don't have to worry as much about how someone on the set will interpret it if you're one of the people there choosing camera angles, blocking, etc.). Writing for others is a whole other ball game.

If you end up writing a script or anything, feel free to pm me, I'd love to read it and give some feedback.

[¿Que?]

Pounds.
If anything, I made pounds appear.
But nothing like money, nothing to live off of.
These years here I am all alone, because...
I write to please my worried soul.
There is no her in this letter.
Confusing panic.

[Ele'ill]

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/01/10/best-creative-writing-exercises_n_805914.html#s220936&title=7x7x7x7

I am skeptical of most creative writing exercises but am going down the list today to see what happens.

[Philosophis Pony]

Marble statues pace the ground in a world few hold dear
He said I see Lennin, Marx and even Socrates in the distance
But nothing means to the common man who can't see his own brittle brain
Don't fall for that card trick from the old priest down the street
Nothing different from this concept of believe

He told them once he told them twice
What it means to follow is the idea of a poor wallowing swallow
Is it all really light? He saw four-thousand doors; some people only see four
Almost like a bird who flew high above the rest, never to see the flock from the skyline
Its like strange to become strange like a hawk in the sun

He told them the story but he heard no words
What could you think if you couldn't buy time?
The spellbound philosopher behind bars
You just can't compare to the despair in his eyes
When he saw everyone rip themselves apart from the inside
There he spent his life wallowing like the swallow to which he had so much contempt
It gets pretty crazy
I just couldn't understand until I saw myself in his eyes and took it to a whole new level

[Philosophis Pony]

What if you couldn't really know what he meant
He said where in the who in the what and it all comes down to the where and when
In this old story book

I say was it all really real, concrete as cement
How did you know that what is who
that is how it works in this surreal story book just out of the blue

[Philosophis Pony]

(Here is another one of my poems.)

The sun broke dusk and the word broke reality
What it means to mean to dream in your brain
What the old man from Athens said was doomed to death
What it means to read is just a fairy tale
It was dead from the start don't ask me how
In these broken words what do you mean to believe in these deluded dusty ruins
Is but my dream...

[Philosophis Pony]

(this is the last one for now, I'll post more later.)

In the mind in the trees
Its not that I don't need I just don't bleed
They told me not to think
They just don't see the link
A half torn man told me just not to care

Philosophy is psychosis
Just like a map no one wanted to read without reality
In a mind without a brain
In these chemical reactions
Just hold the final script

What appears to be nothing is just a mirror into everything
In the land of synapses
While it never ends its just easier to disconnect
With all to contradict
For the story of my sanity

[Philosophis Pony]

Distraught souls plague the city
Hanging over the shoulder of the man
If you take your hand out of your eyes you'll see I'm just fine
Why are you still watching and listening
I'm the contradiction havn't you heard
Meaning can be so beautiful
Wrapped around your neck like a scarf until you see its a noose
An idea can be so blind it blurs the lines of a creation and creator
You must oppose the odds
Live every second just to play a game of burned cards

[Ele'ill]

For those of you who are like me and get really pissed off with writer's block and don't understand why we're being held up by something so petty- I just read a really basic wiki entry detailing writer's block and it made me feel better because it is actually very serious.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Writer's_block

[Philosophis Pony]

Ask the damnability of a century
Cursed minds walk through the streets
Do you want to see the ending already
A bloodshed arm reaching through the eye
I can’t see through your disguise
How many seconds must I wait
Twisted hearts purge the flesh of yesterday
See those people watching from behind you
Wondering little fragments of history
Scattered in the mind of an animal
How many hours shall I wait…

[Philosophis Pony]

Little sparks fly in your image
Nothing can see like the sight of your eyes
Whisper the story of my life into my ear across the night
Save me from a million shattered pieces of Hell
Falling a trillion miles through the windows of nothing
Chains are waiting for me my dear
Pounding against my skull of mercury
Held against a wall by an omnipresent God; little spots of blood begin to wrap my neck
I can’t help but wonder what you see when you see me with those eyes
How many times have I fell over my own broken bones
Help me tame the beast; scream at everything you know
Can you see the darkness that is not me?

[Philosophis Pony]

(I would love to hear someone else's poems; just scribble random words and ideas about anything and share it.)

I see the sky covered in lies
Just a lone sigh
A rotten piece of the pie
Take my face off the lie
You already know I don't have an alibi
Punch a hole in the air, climb inside and just disappear
Don't be scared its not what you feared
Here or there it just isn't anywhere