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Gaye Sep 2015
Yong Marx, yet to die, jumped
out of an air-conditioned car, a
journey Berlin to Bombay as the
Dream merchant of Utopia
metamorphosed him into a subhuman
white bearded national bourgeoisie.

The third world girl who was climbing a
tree without Motorcycle-
Diaries hung to her clothe looked
like an Engelian mistake possibly
not from Cuba, Zambia or Bolivia,
certainly not a Soviet artefact.

Alienation, self-affirmation and all
unlike modes of production confused
his surplus brain. The dichotomy
of imaginings and reality with the
girl proven anti-thesis kafkaesqued
him an added ****** struggle.

A shift in his struggle with a smile
on her lips gave a  hint of welcome to her
Animal Farm. He did get inside.
The moulded furniture, preoccupied sickle
and the lacking exploitation
left him a disappointing proletariat grin.

She opened her mouth, blue words
did not discharge. Neither the mid wife
nor the revolution pumped her conscience.
He got up, disappointed, alarmed,
cursed the chap who misdirected
to a class-less renewed pattern.

“Comrade” she said shaking his hands,
the blood did stir for a moment but
the fight less slant , **** suits and
her distant reality pained the rationalist.
The amusingly alienated young Marx
jumped into his car and left for utopia.
Astral Sep 2015
There is much to feel good about, in our modern age

But there is chaos, in this present time

When the citizens of this nation, wish to elect a miserable jester

To be a leader

We see ignorance at such ridiculous heights
Charlie Chirico Aug 2015
The 20th century a new philosophy was introduced: Existentialism.

Existentialism is pertaining to human existence, and finding our ideal self, along with the meaning of life through free will. This German philosophy must have been confusing, because not long after the beginning of the next century, free will showed us that eradication and apathy can be achieved by "following orders" and not questioning the ideals of your country's ideology.

The idea of this philosophy is that humans are searching for who they are and what they will become by the choices they make based on their experiences without the complications of laws, traditions, or ethnic rules. Now, the ivory and ebony pieces that lay atop the granite chess board are one of a handful of acceptable, yet objective black and white cohabitations that can't function one without the other.

Strategically sound is the sycophant. Then in reference to people, how easy is it to spot a Parasite when trying your hardest not to be stereotypical? That is why it's easier to hate a person because the color of their skin rather than their theology and ancestry.

This idea of free will is sometimes misconstrued as a hindering factor in reference to the education system. Our foundation is put in place at an early age; this is our fundamental axis, and this reasoning is acceptable because
of our commitment and trust in conditioning ourselves.

And when you need to teach youth about hate and pass it off as love, you must regulate the educational systems, and propaganda needs to be subtle yet exposed in mass media and entertainment, along with chalkboards and textbooks.

Considering the learning differential, people who use a different side of their brain than a peer have a chance of excelling in their studies of specific subjects; however, this does not apply in all cases. See science and language as objective, and abhorrence as once subjective with an edit and an asterisk.

One factor is assumptions made regarding social structure. And this is what happens when something is driven by an economic imperative. But statistics are heavily confusing and easily manipulated when some groups of people are thrown figuratively and literally into ghettos.

This has made people a taxable commodity, but not one for a universal vantage. The reason for that has to do with the socioeconomic status of certain communities. Then again, when a country is at war with itself, being drafted will provide an individual with the necessary rations, and when you're wearing a uniform, bank statements do not matter.

From this point on we can put people into two classes: academic and non-academic.

None of which matters when you're staring at the barrel of a gun: automatic or semi-automatic.
Free verse poems aren't always enjoyed, and in some cases respected, but it is my favorite way to structure, or not structure my poems. Although there isn't a rhyme scheme there is close attention given to meter and my overall voice. I know that this poem in particular is a long read, as are some of my others, but I believe that many topics deserve length and cannot be expressed well enough in one or two sentences.

Thanks for reading.
- Charlie
Amy Perry Aug 2015
The freest we can be
Is between our Mentality.

Fiends try to ween us
From seeking the unseen.
Heed what we need from those
Who lead with dishonorable greed.
We are a tough breed
And we're planting the seed
For a new Mentality.
The history that we read
Is not guaranteed,
It's even ****** and mean.
There was no shift, it seems.

No awakening time,
When the people did decide,
That we were finally through with
Conquer & Divide.

Their intentions, they hide,
Through Distraction & Distortion,
The information is there to find,
And from there, for us to decide,
The direction to turn the tide.

Is this Awakening
Still left for us to find?
abp
08.24.15
Brent Kincaid Jul 2015
The hinky stinky spider
Spun a crooked web.
His mama called him,
Said “You stop that, Jeb!”
Jeb the hinky spider
Pays nobody mind.
He stumbles on his way
Just as if he’s blind.

The hinky stinky spider
Spins webs around DC
Pulling in Republicans
To his philosophy.
They do not notice
His mind is awful dim.
That is because they
Are half as bright as him.

The hinky stinky spider
Spins old and faulty tales.
Knows half the voters
Will fall for all his wails.
Hoping he is lucky
Like his brother Dub
And gets himself elected
Resulting from a flub.

The hinky stinky spider
Looks just like a man
Looks very much like
A normal also-ran.
Hopes he can win with
What he thinks is fame
Based on ignoring
The blight upon his name.
(Yes, it’s another one of my Worsery Rhymes!)
Brent Kincaid Jul 2015
He, the rumpled bumbler,
Stumbled, mumbling, bungling
Through his self-made jungle
No mote of humility, his abilities
Were not inclusive of subtlety.
He settled for a public identity
Of propriety and normality,
Obvious hospitality but falsity
Like the nose on his face, exposed.

What a verbose, but artificial
Government official he was.
His cause was never for us
It was for that he was notorious;
How laboriously he dissembled.
But he resembled his opposition
Then took a position of submission
Until his mission was complete
Then he beat his feet in retreat
To those he knew could beat
The highest price and that was nice.

Twice as nice for rental cars
And pretty movie stars
Who weren’t too humble
To stumble the red carpet
With the rumpled bumbler,
Mumbling, no longer bungling
Through his self-made jungle.
Still no humility, a perfect facility
To take from the poor, give to the rich
And not care who calls him sonofabitch.
Abbie Crawford Jul 2015
My voice is louder than the amphetamines that pump through my system,
Like a myriad of violins,
preaching on a soapbox.
Surrounded by self-proclaimed writers,
who control their mindless devotions with their pen to paper.
They believe,
not only in themselves,
but in the system.
They don't challenge what's really happening,
and is instead,
hazed by propaganda.

I am told that confidence is one thing,
and being self sufficient is another.
But i think they amalgamate to each other,
like the rivers do in my head.

We wonder,
what if the dust on the moon really is acidic?
what do we do then?

I give my money to my hierarchy above,
and I challenge what really is happening.
Darren Scanlon Jul 2015
As the sun peeps out
over misty morning hills
and the dawn chorus calls
with its piercing shrill,
the demons of the night
skulk slowly away,
a sidelong glance
at the few who got away.

He rises and stretches
and with sleepy eyes,
breathes a sigh of relief
and a laughing surprise.
The nightmare lingers
in his foggy mind
until a final shiver
leaves the shadows behind.

He opens the curtains
and bathes in the sun,
the heat of all life;
a new day begun.
Out in the garden
playful squirrels flee,
across the lawn
and up into the trees.

A breath of fresh
and life giving air,
the trickling brook
near the fox’s lair.
The sighing sounds
from the tallest trees
as the leaves are rustled
by the morning breeze.

He stares out in wonder
at the glorious scene
as a Blackbird serenades
the woman of its dreams.
But beyond his control
and outside of his will
the doubts creep back in
with a slow stealthy chill.

Why must there be
so much pain in the world;
such hate and division
as the colours unfurl?
There’s so much to see,
to feel and to love,
from the ground at our feet
to the skies up above.

When did mankind
lose the will to live;
to help one another;
to share; to give;
to feel compassion
for sisters & brothers,
for family; for kinfolk;
for any and all others?

Do we no longer care
for the ones who surround,
ignoring their pleas
and heart-breaking sounds?
When did we lose
the ability to be
the ones to help
the persecuted, flee?

Defend the weak,
the young and old.
When did our hearts
stop caring; grow cold?
We are born to this world
as equal souls,
before slowly sinking
down a hate-filled hole.

Us and them;
must it always be,
does the time draw near
when we all have to flee?
The land of the free
is in shackles & chains,
they’ve sold us all
down the desolate drains.

With a sigh of resignation
he shrugs and turns away,
the dawn is dying;
the skies turning grey.
A dark storm approaching
from the distant horizon,
is it the tumult of death
and dangerous division?

There’s a wave of despair
that is too hard to fight,
its better to sleep through
the oncoming night
so behind damp eyes
he retreats and hides,
as the shadows return
where the demons reside.

Beyond the panes,
the sky turns to coal,
The Reaper is laughing,
collecting his souls.
A bountiful harvest
for the gates of hell,
yet there, in the distance,
the toll of a bell?



Written by Darren Scanlon, 23rd August 2014.
Revised 13th July 2015.
©2014 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Dulce Ivonne Jul 2015
The sympathizer is the barrel of a gun
and it goes off.
Amongst bloated company
And hues of laughter
Amongst amiable stares and
fraudulent applause.
It beams socially the very instant
before mayhem falls
and in packs of  cordial mirth,
it grows in courage,
menacing enough to stare directly at a dead man.
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