by aemelia :3

#1

The forsaken.

As we make our way towards dreary life

Faces of unfamiliar people flash by

Carved by ages of labor

One hopes to reach out to them

In friendly camaraderie

Yet they serve us with

A seperating tremor

And soon retreats into the dark

As we move on.

Daily our screens spurt out

Glowing fragments of information

Freshly toasted

To be munched on

As we scurry to our task

Yet never are we told about

The unfortunate;

They live between the lines

To be looked upon with pity

Yet few know

How to end it

Their continual suffering

Is seen as mere necessity;

What little care there still is

Pales in comparison

With its magnitude

As we are paralyzed

by how difficult it seems

To act

Its almost as if society had gave up on them

As the little shards

Of past attempts at breaking the cycle

Find their way

Into the gaping hands

of those they hoped to aid

Or, safely sanitized

Gets stitched into our feed

#2

May tomorrow be better !

As we set forth

On a bootless inquiry

The sidegrowth of the roads

Call to be seen

Upon a grey pane sunk

Into the dusty red sea of brick

A glowing light shines

Through the dark markings:

“Tomorrow will be better”

Perhaps ’tis for the workers

Who toiled here,now forgotten.

It might’ve urged them on

Placed hope

Into their tired spirits

A consolment

To kindle their hearts

In face of a new day

Working for Utopia…

O, if only their tomorrow

Met their high idea!

…

Yet today, as the visions

Of the past dies off

We are left with the dreary now

Lacking the eterne inspiration:

The passion for the unknown.

May our tomorrow be better!

#3

Alethophobia

Words became some strange palliative

Long outdated, no longer effective

Sugar pills, sacramental wafer of medical authorities

Indeed there is nought a thing more pretty than fake flowers

for they are all artificial, designed to be perfect

In this contrived world, worship-thing of consumption

Do flawed, messy flowers get attention?

The truth i long sought had dawned upon me

But how am i to accept?

I must let my gastral juices carry the burden out

unborn my former self in the final communion

become a cute little thing with a strangling collar

and lose myself in the tracings of this glossy fake world

created by untold of endeavors

doomed to oblivion

Enough! Forget about it all

Let’s just laugh it all off

Create more smokes and mirrors

Have fun and say words resembling goodbye

before we’re all alone

after all

in a world devoid of meaning, what could truth mean?

#4

Susiety

As society is diagnosed with grave issues

And opague waters drown poor cities

Others look unaffected.

Their eyes on ground, they walk masked

As they numbly work

To reach some arbitrary mean…

Isn’t this society… sus, as the youth say?

“Be productive!” the bulletins shout

Almost dreamily;

Yet the workers, albeit in clean collars

Simply are not permitted

By the very repetition

Scrolling through the grind

All they see is Cinderella

And brand-new standards

Silently held by workplaces

Glamor and happy faces

Became new mountains of content

A masquerade

Where the obsession with effectiveness

Hang over us

……

When can we finally live a little?

This deep-running control

Making us rave for the unusual

Then marking the late ones insane

…..

The spectacle demands creation

Yet sucks the life from beauty

And discards the vibrant

Twisted nightmares burst forth

Side by side with fallen high dreams

To haunt our deep

…

This cannot go on!

……

Are you really going to just laugh?

The grave flowers grow in every crack…

Don’t you see?

…

Oh, nevermind then

……

Its over.

#5

workers for a cause not theirs?

The worker of today

dully toils away under neon lights

their sweat sucked away

by the gears of production

to be converted

into the dead flesh of value

Their features had long been eroded away

as the silver chains of cash reduce them

into some mechanized part of their work

just as inhuman as the fruits of their labor

to be glazed over and unacknowledged

by the enjoyers of their creation

who treat them as part of the background

of the clean halls and high services they live by

gliding past the true builders of society

without acknowledging them

never to truly look into their eyes

and see for themselves

The glowing souls of the unfortunate

 worn down by their wanton suffering

whose very existence must be won

betwixt the spaces left by iron decree

In the incised places where even the wisest

bound to live by sacrificing lifeforce

can only manage to see the next dawn

not unlike those under the whip of colonial rule

or perchance one rendered into slavery

They withdraw quietly from their room

away from excitement and attention

pushed aside as soon as their role is filled

never noted on their slumped trips

to a shoddy substitute of home

where oft their roof hung over them in threat

and their faraway landlords, high in their seats

refuse to descend and see

the leaks and issues in their rental places

instead merely collecting their tribute

and profiting off some long unrefined holding

The cold winds torture one’s bones

as one lay upon thin sheets

enduring as the molded ceiling

drops poison upon an eroded floor

The rain collected upon rusty ledges

ran fresher than the tap water

and the smell of stagnant water

is the only thing floating around

in their desolate abodes

where they must swallow in the pains

keep their voices from displeasing

for they know should they cry out

and barf out the poison society had fed them

none would notice except their enslavers

who muffles their voices with scrappy foods

and left their workers riddled with diseases

 conveniently hidden from everyone else


#6

Alien

Glossy walls descend upon me

 I sing in trepidation

 In this glittering cage

yet none seems to hear me

 The beautous ribbons

Floating from my heart

decay before my eyes

as they attempt to press themselves upon a surface

moths who fly themselves into fire

 their charred remains

to be sterilized by some membrane –

when they are seen

 they will become

some insignificant dust

stripped of meaning ……

Yet i know i am nought alone

as I look out and see other spectators

whose words, though decaying

becomes fuel for light

 But must it be so?

Masked spectators trying to

Preserve their beautous dreams

in a drift bottle

 Too sunk into

The comfort of lonely entertainment

To reach out?

#7

Decaying Idol

A scepter is placed

upon the seat of honor

Its gleaming glory

attracting faith

–

The cloudy visage

of a kingdom

Comes into shape

 libations pour

Before the scepter

as it claims the blessing

of some strange philosophers’ stone

and its servants serve it

with e’er-increasing intensity

Yet to perterrified eyes

’tis a bloody ceremony-

the libations are made

from the blood of the suffering

who, in their desperation

had offered their life-force to the priests

Just so they can get

Their daily bread;

As it is poured before the scepter

Its lackluster iron

Regains its golden mask

And when its appetite is not sated

It cannot help but fall into rust

And devour its servants

a crowd of tulmotous teenagers

Who seen the scepter behind its mask

Came forth just before the libations

And as the light shone though

The glittering cage

They raised the scepter

and showed its rusted flaws

To the attendants

O, that this cage

May soon be shattered!

#8

Peace？

The smooth gilded halls

where the nations were supposed to meet

is utterly oiled up with grease

yet still dressed in glamour

as the shadowy, well-worn money

runs through their veins

charging the mechanic diplomats

medals polished to a shine

are pinned upon the oaken walls-

yet they have not seen war

the lustered things

were never worn

the old, suited men

seated proper in the chandeliered rooms

remain still as the bombs fly;

controlled by fluid capital

 that conjures movement from the motionless

they submitted their silver lines

to the gloved hands above

becoming mechanized marionettes

as they move to the line’s suggestion

gliding smoothly in the halls

dressed up for the pictures

as they sew up a papery peace

 their sated puppeteers

give it flesh

pouring in gleaming gold

so it could be plastered

upon the deep wound of war

The gunshots stop;

the media, untouched by ravage

fly away from the wrecks

Scoops of the marionette plays

 safely preserved

for sanitized gawking

Yet none other than the hurt people see

the blood oozing through the plaster

till it gashes out again

as the others leave the desolate land

going to their next performance

bringing their favored marionettes

to win more flashlights

not seeing the desperate eyes

that follow their trails

#9

Residues of War

The searching cameras

Soar high away from the fields

Drawn to a desolate no-man’s land

By the tantalizing explosions

A blossom of suffering

To be scooped away

served with extra spice

Another fast-food story

Inducing wide-eyed want

In the long-desensitized audience

As they motionlessly view it

In their soft narcosis of inaction

Sunk into personal bliss

A sugary gratification

To cease for a moment their incited desire

Before moving on

Retreating away

From the charred soils

The cameras left it

Wide exposed

For the locals to heal-

Shards reminiscent of conflict

Are stabbed firm into the surroundings

And only the bushes know

How many unexploded bombs await

Walking agents of death

Awaiting to inflict again

The pains of a halted war.

O, how facile it is to start a war

For the machinery of capital!

The merchants, smelling profit,

Hurry to supply it with furnishments

Toys of bloody War

While those unknowing of its cause

Are swayed into blind obedience

As they pour their fervent blood

Into this affair of suffering

Realizing too late.

Yet how hard it is, indeed, to bring a war

Into a full stop!

For the celebrators of peace

Do not know of the hidden war

The poor civilians go through

To get their daily bread

 #10

Puppeteered child soldiers

Generals took away the children

from the destitute towns

destroyed by merciless war

and place in their trembling hands

outsized weapons

the children cry

for they see the gory blood

stained deep into the rusty blade

and, though not fully comprehending

its deadly weight

they are nonetheless in fear.

yet the war had already been capitalized on;

merchants have lent them money in hopes of profit

from this blood-sucking war

and they have lost too much

for it to cease now.

The children are pacified

with saccharine pleasures

fed strange crystals

and told it was rare fruit-candy

found in some lost pocket

the children, seeing the scarce treat

do not question as they down it

though its glint looks suspicious

their eyes become clouded

as a stupor clouds their home

and the bloody stains made them feel

some strange euphoria

while the chief, wrapped in lights

enlightens them of the art of murder

they mechanically charge to the battlefield

their marionette threads given over

as they sacrifice their life blood

for some unseen war

and the more fortunate, needy of saccarine

that they believe is their prophet

put themselves into ecstasy

just to not feel panging guilt

seeing the blood of enemy and friend alike

seep into the creaky earth

they feel the want like a startled horse

running down their chest bones

stirring their action.

As they lie

blissfully confused

in hopes of manana

black poppies grow from where they bled

Just one moment more…

#11

Palestine

Smoky skies imprison

the suffering souls

as the incessant bombs

rain upon grey wreckage

Barbed wire bind them

From calling for help

Their mouths taped

By polished soldiers

 the bloodied flowers

are plucked away

by uncaring drone

gilded into bouquets

for leaders to wear

some trinket of curiosity

for garnering votes

yet disposed of soon

in the corrupted veins

deep in glamorous halls

of failed states

Where the unseen chains

Of silver Capital

Bind politicians from reaching

Their high promise

Turning them into marionettes

Actors of fast food story

Safely sanitized

For bored consumption

Yet none looks back

As bombs drop from lofty height

some brutal rain of death

Disfiguring crying children

with gleaming bayonet

the soldiers kick aside worn foods

they have so dearly hung upon

laughing it off

even as the blood stains

defy white-and-blue

The survivors take up arms

and fight back mercenaries

only to be ridiculed

condemmed as terrorists

o, such a ridiculous name

for those who have not known

the luxury of choice!

#12

abandoned?

Heavy waters drum upon

greyed panels of glass

as the drops upon dull floor

reflect the evening lights

some noisy, bubbly world

filled with pretension

that forgets the unfortunate

and continue

its masqurades

even as the dancers

hide tears in their eyes

when the desolate

are dragged away

and the old halls fall apart

some lonely grove

 lavished with gilded grave flowers

one sits against the wall

confined by tight suits

that cling to them

some trinket that was meant

to elevate them

making them in the image

of the confident

yet, retaining no such spirit,

curl into themselves

eyes tightly shut

as if to prevent

the inner sad fluids

laden with nostalgic love

from escaping their dams

caressing in their hand

a well-worn object

to pacify their frantic soul

that had finally took off their mask

It had already gained

a watery layer

and one cannot tell

what it was soddened by

they open their eyes

and looks upon their reflection;

yet they see not themselves

as the aridifying trickles

corrupting and gilding

all on its path

threaten all

#13

Numbed?

The reflection of our lifes

monotone yet soggy

with the fluids of sadnees

is showed to us

captured by the lights

and preserved in picture

yet in the reflection

I see not the blood-stained scenes

that capture the ugliness

of the world around us

some unknown figurine

stares back in horror

at the newly visible restraints

that tug upon the numbed

Yet the amber-like walls

sucking the temperature

from beautous word

bind them with silver chains

 mechanizing them

Yet when i look around

I see the same masquarade

and the walls pale

before my eyes

as the others laught it away

after seeing the slides

as if they were nought more than specimens

……

their eyes, buttered

by dulling opioid

that descend from above

become masked by the smoke and mirror

detaching them from the bloody tide

that threaten their halls…

the impoverished are murdered

for sheer profit

and their blood seeps so deep

it floods upon even the surface

Yet still they are disregarded

#14

Decayed food

The golden oils

precious life-blood of grain

sustaining with its shoulder

the arteries of kitchens

are fresh taken from trembling hands

before they are poured

into black-stained boxes

by numb officials

armed with clean latex gloves

that seems so very pale

when it reflects  poisonous residue

that hangs still in the corners-

Yet they are unseen;

the cart is sealed

as if all will be safe

for the official pockets are adorned

with greasy bills

the oils, swishing around

ignored residue

become stained by poison

on their path to feed all;

yet for long they have been ingested

by unknowing populace

who have not been allowed near

the stained cars bearing their food

and blindly let trust

hurt their poor bodies

becoming cash pockets

of the medicine industry

while the officials seem uninfluenced;

their food are pure

and this poison reaches not

their high palates;

even as the seels are opened

and stains sccusigly point

at decades of manipulation

it is soon sealed back up

in smothering censor.

#15

‘The buildings they built have not their home’

The decaying world

supports itself

upon the backs of laborers

Standing upon high reams

they seem not to fit

with fruit of their sweat

neon grandeur illuminating

their grey uniform

Yet none saw

how flailing tower

were held up by resilient bone

–

their darkened blood

crystalize beneath steel they handle

sealing this secrets

Even as some unlucky coworker

spectacularly fall upon

grey streams of traffic

the flow of bitterness

cannot be stoppered

for those driving by

giddy from scraps of media

sees not the gory sight

melting into grey pavement

Nor can the coworker of the deceased

bade farewell to the suffering;

they must continue pointless work

for they know they will never see

the bold accusation

growing from the dead

#16

Daily procedute?

The world fell apart

before my clouded eyes

grey cylinders of time

torn by silver tangles of capital

drip from their slots

as if molten wax

the tear-like pieces, ready-cut for consumption

is given as a treat

to the starving

that only teases at unsated hunger

with teasing remains

suggesting some heavenly feast

remains near

yet can’t be reached out to

Those below simply had no choice

but to blur their minds with opiates

the vapors of dull media

acts like a pallative

to a disease incurable for them

#17

Murder?

A rich man dies by gunshot;

 flowering blood upon fine suit

is carefully captured 

as the next fast-food story

its cardboard taste generously spiced

till many blindly ingest

in hopes of a decent snack

Media once promised to offer

to flavor their own grey lives;

they long for it

despite the repeated disappointment

even though gilded word seems to corrode

their very blood veins

as their sympathies are redirected

towards the formerly “respectable”

Yet none had looked beneath

the gilded, decaying images-

for this “respectable” image

hides the deaths of the destitute-

’twas hastily pasted over

the spaces between the lines

for they threaten to bleed out

with the blood of the deceased

whose shadows haunt the papers

in between the glorified lines……

The sponsors fear

that impoverished families would roar

 with righteous anger

if their stories were ever told

and even the customers lingering in hope

would leave at seing this hope in desperation

#18

Christmas blessings

The cold winds, though scathing

gently tucks in the bleeding soil

into a blanket of healing snow

covering its suffering body

comforting an earth that chokes upon pollution

troubled by reckless consumption

Yet still, the air remains jolly

as wind knocks open warm doors

leaving behind traces of silver-laced winter

upon a divided world

gusts of wind stoke the fires high

as friends and neighbors gather by

around the warm dining place

feasting upon fruits they labored for

in a rare moment of camaraderie

lighting up the pure silence

with most high elation

the inspiring tunes of Peace itself

soar upon the battlegrounds

as the wounds from dagger-like shrapnel

are bandaged by the descending snow

O, how the unwilling soldiers

tied in place by chains of capital

fighting for no worthy cause

shedding blood for some insatiable appetite

o, how they pray for the wars to cease!

yet their tired fingers are puppeteered

into mechanic action…

In their anxious desperation

the soldiers turn upon their pupettears

with righteous uproar they tear free from bondage

facing bravely the high-seated

with the courage they hoped for

and even the ones more fortunate

seeing their own suffering

in a grey world

had finally stood up

and broke their chains

upon the seemingly invincible walls

that seperated them from their kind

partaking in the spirit

of precious camaraderie

#19

And the poor suffer what they must?

the impoverished babes

cradled by suffering arms

that yet seek to offer them comfort

against the bleak winds

that lash upon their unprotected skin

their faces, dirtied

by some unnoticed dust

cry out

as they descend from lukewarm womb

into an icy dystopia

their tears cannot be tended to

by even most loving mother

whose gaping hands search desperately

for some shelter hanging just in reach

that was delayed in reaching the needy

by some corrupt system

serving instead the insatiable gentry

Even when they did enter school halls

by some favor of providence

teachers tell them to quit their dreams

and they look with hatred towards their own kind

blinded by harsh words of discouragement

denying their very identity

hoping for some scrap of decency

from scathing opinion

And when they grow up

tamed by the forces that once starved them

they look towards the rich in worship

seeking to remake themselves in the image of money

and soon the themselves, if they were lucky

defend the action of the high-seated

even as their own bretheren

are suffering from pain

from the defects of abject poverty

in an blind society

#20

Cure?

The screens blare out reassuring images

neon trinkets resembling care

suggestive of some sacred pancreas

as its promoters don the white jacket

the bell to induce our trust

Some ineffective palliative

merely stopping

the bitter, consistent pain

of a troubled dody

yet is sold out

to a doddering society

Hoping for some sturdy resting place

Even though it knows

its so-called pills are but placebos

doses of sleep-inducing morphine

meant to pacify its anger

as vampiric chains suck at its blood

and its resistance against the agony

as it tears at its restrainments

had been termed “pscychotic”

by high seated doctors

#21

Ode to Working Women

The female worker, long bonded to the home

by the chains of land and tradition

oft disregarded by their tired companions

 was sold off to the whip of factory labor

demanded to suffer so that capital may thrive

upon their unappreciated sweat

they must spend all strength, traverse the restrictions of petty gender

just to gain a pittance toiling away

ridiculed, threatened by the hanging exclusion

Yet it is here in the mines

upon the looms

in the factory houses of suffering

they met others of their kind, free from the grips of family

though still brought down by the gruelsome work

they held each other’s grayed hands in solidarity

helping each other through the pains they once endured

finding themselves far from alone

As they join the men in their assembly line

they earned the respect of their coworkers

They saw in eac other’s eyes tiredness

 of this pittance of a wage

and a flame that burnt down division

pointed questioningly towards the barons 


Who bond them to long torment

and threatened them with their desperation

murdering their friends

stuffing their lungs with dust and cotton fiber

allowing the machines to cripple them

without even once stopping the conveyor belt of industry

Together they arose

‘Gainst the cruel machines of repression

that defamed and deplored their supposed laziness

and in the terror of the ruling class

revealed the disgusting exploitation they are placed in

Rocking the foundations of lofty throne

as they emerged upon the streets

and asked for their daily bread

their eyes set upon true liberty

Their might move the iron legislators

the defenders of opulence

Unwavering the women marched forward

even as they are set back

by the potent forces of reaction

just so the law can allow doors for others after them

they spilt their blood upon the streets

a platform of suffering to support their offspring!

#22

Spring?

 Flowers spring out between barren bone

 as their green leaves carefully dress up

the fresh cuts made upon dying earth

by some blade craving dark treasures beneath

 another addition to the spoils

lying in some gilded pocket

The winds of life dance merrily

nurturing rebirth

yet they cannot bring back the forgotten.

 Dark-brown stains of blood

seeped deep into the now-thawing ground

where the silent metal, toys of war,

await for the next sacrifice that, fighting with bravery

‘gainst cleanly mercenaries

must suffer upon the earth

to be framed by some cold camera

that swoops down to capture the grand explosions

made into a souvenir

of the last major event

in cold, desolate societies floating above

who long since painted themselves aloof

that yet abound in riches stained in blood

and numbed its lowly citizenry

 with the circus of “foreign” spectacle

feeding them upon stolen wealth

to prevent them from taking action

And down upon the suffering ground

livened not by human warmth but licking flames

 the forgotten “other world”

just like the other america of yonder

must live on upon the verge of starvation

forced to clean up the messes of foreign ambition

win their shoddy bread by risking their lives

even as they drown in the wastes cast out by high society

the cries of their suffering remains unheard

 as they endure the bulk of wounds

from the silver whip of capital

that sucks out their blood

 and converts it into icy wealth

The forgotten have no mouths,

 yet they must scream from the pain:

their bled-out bodies cannot bear any longer

 to pay more sacrifices!

Their roars of anger tear ope

cold, separating veils

that hide the dark secret of exploitation

and their silenced voice

shook the beds of no longer numb residents

with songs of collective hope

that the chains that bond one from enjoyment

would finally be broken!

#23

Reality?

nightmares weave seamlessly into this world

A rain of fire and fury descends

upon the no longer cleansing tides of sea

drowning in ashes

and above this grey ocean of destruction

upon the glowing neon cities

that stood alone in centre stage

having pushed away the rest as their barriers

The silence of desolation rings through dull concrete

Sounds of living suffering are warded away

so the dreary nightmare may last forever

and the dunnest smoke of industry

may continue to spit out great flows of gold

the cost of a grave sacrifice

that is never collected by superfluous press

One must paddle aimlessly

on the dreary water of time

within their lonely pods

drowning slowly in liquidized suffering

never to truly awake from this nightmare of a reality

 actions are stoppaged by the painful tides of silver

till they are frozen in little samplings

as if bugs in an amber piece

a specimen to be the next scoop story

#24

Corporate fun; or, Milk and Honey in the promised land of consumption

The golden sunlight of spring

had been made banal by some gilded hall

as we were flocked to a gathering

like slaves in their saturday mandated parties

where some pallative joy is doled out

in garish mockery of blossom

to soothe the commonfolk as they slave away

The more benevolent authorities

 don their clean suits

in a so-callled congregation

in an artificial field of plenty

the people take in the milk of obedience

as they absentmindedly laugh it away

and another day is passed in calm

their anger kept down by the honey of entertainment

#25

Hubris of the “West”

The gentry scholars in halls of marble

quaint, pale men clad in sable

 reserved in their high towers

condescend to chitchat about

The sturdy peat, peoples forgotten

that yet serves as the base of their vaults

where they preserve the holy edicts of patriarchs

and lay forth their rich wines

Before their dark-suited patrons

whose iron wings protect them

O how often in their illuminated temple

jeweled by stolen wealth

where they claim the high mantle of classics

the roars of suffering can be heard

yet it is cordoned off

by silken thread

that incises their critiques

just like the reign of cotton

into mere palliatives

patches of reform that cannot cure

malignant disease

They partake in the Eucharist of liberty

sharing in liberal allowing of sacramental wafers

banal pats upon their back

their snow-white napkins

hide their tattered silver beard

that rejoice in the fine vintages of blood

as the very children they drag into slavish condition

are called to sing in praise of their glory

oft these poor kids are blinded

and their sincere voices of gratefulness

even as they suffer the whip

and their sweat shines the shoes of their audience

brought their masters in ascension

up into their very own kingdom of heaven

where they bestow themselves with golden laurel


they step upon the stairs

made from worn bones of the oppressed

and inspect their necrophillic collections with pride

as they line their basements with prized skulls

designed to show their highness

next to their precious books of hierarchy

#26

For want of performance

O to present an aperitif

that refreshes the mind of the audience

and lights up sparks of inspiration-

tis the dream of word collectors.

The writer pluck condensed fruits of thought

deep inside their ivory towers

and made them into fine wines

aged by the tamed winds

Gleaming liquors that, with sharpness and sweet depth

send a spark of enlightenment across one’s mind

The frothing bubbles, beautiful pearls

bring relaxation to the restrained knowledge

inebriating its drinkers

so they may find welcome

 in those partaking in its warmth

 Garnished by brilliant ice-cubes

that one so delicately carves out

the writer presents the cup before high consumers

quaint, pale men whose beards are gilded silver

they await aside

eager to get a drip of that glory;

and when the grand sirs nod

they make the drinks for more

hoping that the wings of Posey

may bring others in society

to soar over the heights of thought

Yet this is oft not to be!

The bubbly product of their intellect

cool down in reason

and yet no talk had arisen with its broken spheres

no comment given by its judges

Or else nothing but a mockery of true advice

some self-sufficient chitchat

 marking admission to high society

shards of advice that do not remedy the disease

that separates the imbibers from wider communion

#26

life by decay

The moldy, cold drops of shadow

drips slowly upon the eroded floor

collecting in the holes

left by some occasional termite

 salty marshes reflecting yellowing wallpaper

as the cold winds of abandonment

bringing bitter flowers of ice upon the bright plastic

Near the greying window, nibbled away by growths

a dim light flickers on and off

in dizzying patterns of cluelessness

upon the rotting iron bars

the last straw to kill one’s sanity

to reveal a glowing computer

eternally buzzing

even as its last bit of heat

is being sucked away by the frost

The desolate blue collars, returning

to their desolate excuse of a home

lay in tiredness upon an aged couch

and slept with heads pulsing in pain

troubled by poisonous miasma of industry

their stomaches empty, voices quieted

by the voids betwixt them and the world they make

where neon lights shine upon high, clean halls

and where no one picks up peanut shells

-well, except them, who are constantly denied

pushed away as soon as their use is done

back into the dreary rooms of slow death

#27

Rebirth

In the fires of righteous rage

breaking the false walls of hate that hide

the cybernetic puppeter-strings of capital

revealing their feast upon offerings of flesh

The flames caress the last drops of life

the deceased comrades left upon the murderous machines

and burnt to ashes the gilded world their work produced

to build upon its ruins a new one!

The bearers of flame arose from it with gleaming hope

reborn for a beautous future

casting aside all decaying relics of what was

and freed from their muffling coccons of illusion

their hearts beat with tides of newborn love

as from soil watered by sacrifice

flowers emerge from debris and bone

#28

A new age?

The dimming ambers of conflict

 buried by a sacrophagus of damp, grey paperwork

once again burst out in flame

after the thirsting iron fangs of empire

 had shriveled away in weakness

 replaced by less visible pupetter lines

 that draw the life-blood from the hungry

who allow the plastic sheens of capital’s carving knife

to cut them apart for a pittance of a remittance

package and process them into glossy merchandise

 fitting neatly into little boxes and onto plates

 served in delicate chinaware for the faceless consumer

so that the pale faces of those sitting up high

upon the well greased halls of riches unknown

may be once again glowing

with blood not theirs coursing their veins

 as they don their fine cotton suits

woven from the sweat of forgotten work

the cloth drained, every ounce

 fresh from the eyebrows of the laboring

 and served hot and fresh

 along with buttons and ornaments

drenched deep in blood

and the newly burning firewood of conflict they stoked

warms up their cold halls


Well fed, these quaint men wipe away the residues

and into a gilded parapet they climb

to assume a tone of profession

the numbing and reassuring voice in the radio

that puts the nascent feeling of other futures to sleep

beneath saccarine visions of plenty

 never to be born and released

till the waters where we buried our past

drown us in overwhelming reminders

catching us and making us await justice

 alone, alone, deep within the jungle of steel

 that is to become our prison

and the flames of war conviniently burns away

 the stained napkins

enriching their pockets
at the expense of sacrificing others


The angered nature, reborn

cleanses its wounds with fire and water

 finally expelled, once and for all

the scourge of humanity with its very own devices and doings