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Ja Coby's
father 'bout
the crack
then fought
a tort
in awe
while this
court of
*** was
dowd but
next this
coat of
paint and
their brush
of laughter
and forever
musty last
Julia Feb 2019
i have an Uncle
he steals my money
he steals my ****
and burns it all
in front of me

i have an Uncle
who’s a misogynist and racist
a murderer and ******
a fascist and a terrorist
he stole my Fathers’ lands
he beats my Mother’s womb

he is addicted to white powder
black blood and green gold
he worships forces
to seize control
over every mind, body, and soul
my Uncle belongs in prison
but he owns those too
written on 10/19/18
Ken Voltaire Nov 2018
Dark have been the days of late.
Feasting upon the rotting flesh of suns past,
None shall be delivered.
Grown too tall,
Hungered far in excess of what any stomach could carry,
Carried farther than any man dareth venture.
A ceaseless machine,
Cries out in smoke,
The ghastly thing spews,
Waste, lies, misery,
Upon those unknowing folk who drinketh from deceiving waters.
Strong trees stand no longer,
Delicate flowers of darkened shades,
Pilfer the landscape.
Intoxicating petals, formerly fair,
Trigger a grand collapse of the self.
Birds flutter hastily,
Stars spin before wide eyes,
A veil unending shields against the truth.
Many fear I hath become a madman.
The last star fades behind the peak,
The valley grows dark,
‘Tis the fate of I to fall into oblivion.
Methinks that sheep are blind, yet loyal,
Holding course without falter,
Keeping pace with the masses.
I apologize, dear listener,
For I fall into old cliches.
The stone that breaketh herds,
With force unmoving yet natural,
I stand before thee as a lone stranger,
Plowing against trivial time.
Betrayed by my own kin,
Great hammers are forced upon delicate fingers,
Hand over hand climbing ever onward,
With mangled digits.
My palms very nearly caress the precipice,
Idle hope keeps legs steady,
Mind weary,
Soul ever searching.
Brandon Conway Oct 2018
When I first passed the gates
into the metallic garden
stamping out seeds
                      for the junkyard
with its infinite cardiac output

I gazed upon the eyes of the creatures
that inhabited this oily soil
                            of steel and chemicals
all I saw was a cry for help
to escape
          to be away
                just one day
they cry, just one day

I got caught in the claws
and it scratched
                       and scratched
the wounds heal but the scars stay

I have become a trapped animal
                                     with eyes of dismay

There's little chance of escape
I can dream
           I can pray
one day, I echo
               one day

Now I am just taxidermy
for this godforsaken industry
and they call this
quality.
After wide-set earthen towers mask
the highway runoff, campers come off lofty
horses, signal boorishness to breeze. Sat alone
where rolling orange will tease
the peace from perfect dark - the hint of dread
forgoing litness to expose a martial bode -

the low-slung limbs of stern bring
trained to-wrist like faithful,
catching glimpses of what common good
afforded us naff hazes like the present
sickle answer, whale-bone grief and prescient
danger. Fix a poultice,
love’s soft landing seldom not
for treasures come.
Revive the brazen lungs

in boasts of rushes, random-lit,
forestalling sodden semblances of wit
from Sunday’s arsenal -
right-matched to cleaner absences
than your limited souls could ever pare.

She’s felt - a fabric after our own hearts,
a loan from common waltzes,
taciturn in downshifts of this archen land -
of course - of hand, a slight
anomaly for watchers to observe.
Each roadblock touches nerve.
Julie Grenness Aug 2018
Oh, great horsemother in the sky,
Here is a question from a bard such as I,
Are you shooting a racing vet today?
Another horse was destroyed for gain,
This is, of course,
A personal hobby horse,
If a horse gallops anyway,
Why are you whipping them this way?
This is the sport of kings, you see,
Death for a horse, if not its jockey,
Sounds to me like animal cruelty,
Racegoers turn the other way,
Drink some more best champagne,
This is question, better yet,
Does horsemother ever shoot the vet?
We lost another beautiful thoroughbred today, shot by  the racing industry.
jorn christopher Feb 2018
Revolution institution
Gather up the calvary
Empty glasses for the masses
Raised in unity

From the fires, cue the choirs
Sing a hymn of suffering
Generation desperation
As the angels sing

Don't you know?
You can't let go
Cause it's so hard to say goodbye
To what we dim the lights for
Killing truth with lies we die for

Programming emotion
Manufacturing our lives
We are the products of
An over-processed love
That is chemically defined

Cheaper, faster
Blood and plaster
Heart-pumping machinery
Gears and veins
Rewired brains with
Television dreams

Burning engines
Fueled by tensions
Apprehension industry
Mutilation of salvation
As the angels scream

Don't you know?
You can't let go
Cause it's so hard to say goodbye
To what we dim the lights for
Killing truth with lies we die for

Programming emotion
Manufacturing our lives
We are the products of
An over-processed love
That is chemically defined
Self vs. Nature vs. Nurture: Eternal conflict of the thoughtless mind. Mass produced, quantifiable identities that wage war against themselves. All sales are final.
Mane Omsy Jan 2018
Nothing changes the fact
That you are an animal
Even if you pour gold
In an old poor man's cup

When you tried to carve
This land from hundreds
You didn't notice, you must
For your sake at least

The strength they bore
Can scatter all your dreams
Over their dead bodies
Whether you serve the country
People in my region may have to leave their houses just because the government thought this is a better place for an oil industry to process. The village consist of a 75 year old public Christian School and a Holy Church along with hundreds of families living around them. Now, the people are striking for their land.
zoe mae Jan 2018
this one has a beautiful coat
says the cat *******
bleeding beneath her jeans
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