‘I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America,’
Where elephants and donkeys in the media prompt hysteria,
‘And to the Republic for which it stands,’
Devotion lies in political assassinations if one doesn’t comply or withstand,
‘One Nation under God,’
Whilst following religious law and trading faith for facade,
‘Indivisible,’
Indefensible,
‘With liberty and justice for all,’
With negligence for protocol.
They speak of peace, those frauds with their frozen gaze,
yet their filthy hands worship oil and clotted blood.
They send the children of the proletariat to shatter in the trenches of their greed,
while they pop champagne behind gilded walls.
No reconciliation erases the stench of mass graves.
The justice they promise is a coffin lined with zinc.
The peace they preach is nothing but a rigged bargain,
a pact disguised beneath the tatters of humanity.
Weapons do not rise for fraternity,
they devour lungs, they rip open entrails,
and the corpses thrown into the mud
beget centuries of hatred demanding vengeance.
There will be no hands reaching across barbed wire,
there will be no pardon etched in the darkness of tenebrous passions.
Only memory, like a naked blade,
piercing through the lies of condescending peacemakers.
War is their empire, and they will yield nothing.
We are compelled to smash their thrones, to burn the relics of their arrogance,
so they may finally taste the karmic feast they have served us
through centuries of organized assassinations.
Does my PTSD gets in the way of my character by
Unknown and recognized faces in any situations to
neutralize my energy? Because of someone 's else
Pre judgments, forced opinions, making false
deliberate spoken assumptions with slandering, personal
attacts. My character Assassinations
My feelings seems If I'm trapped in someone's else box
of how I should verbalize or how one portray me as one
see fits. My Character Assassinations
If the tables were reversed how would the assassinators
feel? My Character Assassinations
comparison is a pickpocket plucking joy from my handbag
I have been compared to countless things and things
that cannot be counted, or counted on
mostly fair assessments of character
only a handful of assassinations
I have been an assassin.
accused of killing
minutes carelessly turning earth, looking
for words to say the unnumbered and the unnamed
it is ineffable and I effing hate it like a hangnail
I cannot quit picking at the quick
then dousing it in ethyl alcohol, or the other kind
sometimes when I'm bleeding out from the ripped skin
I watch it dribble down my guilty fingers into the sink
with dried bits of fluoride still clinging
hard drips that won't rinse
there is never enough blood to fill the basin
never enough origin in your story to cover the drips
so I settle my savagery and rinse my hands of it
letting myself enliven at the sight of my innocent, open palms
instead of crying over a little gore, creating more horror
It is always good to be real in life.
when you speak the truths to help
some victims of atrocities in Africa,
you are doing a good job.
As you think of decolonise some African countries
And some colonisers think of recolonise
the entire Africa.
Don't forget to find out the reason of assassinations
of many African loyal leaders.
Don't join some African traitors
who don't care about the lives
of millions of Africans.
Remember that the sellouts
were paid much money to sacrifice their colleagues,
they were also killed systematically
and seized all their stuffs
by some western corruptors.
In so called win - win deals
which many African leaders
were imposed by some western leaders.
As the westerners gained 85% of interests
in those so called deals.
when majority African leaders
called for the change of the systems
and some parternaires in businesses.
Now there are wars , massacres,
genocides,terrorism, and rebelions
in some parts of Africa.
I’ve been to Memphis and the place
Where ML King was shot,
But where I was when it occurred,
I must say I forgot.
Of course I grieved, the way I did
When RFK was killed,
Two lives destroyed when both had
So much good to be fulfilled.
Assassinations always hurt,
For mostly they deprive
The world of all the victims tried
To do when still alive.
The death of JFK, to me,
Is etched inside my brain,
Where all the details when I heard
Indelibly remain.
Yet, though it wasn’t quite the same
For Martin Luther King,
His birthday’s a reminder
Of a man worth honoring.
the blood scratched upon the fire lit cave
Before
the first inks stained the taut stretched carcass
Before
masters of words and colour
changed the blank screaming page
Before
the shadows burned the glass
and smiles were discouraged
Before
the spinning drum
Cast the trotting horse
Before
black and white
fuzzed assassinations
and leaps upon the moon
Before
colours hues lacked definition
Before
the ambient slip
as we lowly timed or faces
Before
the worlds virtually weren't there
and we hid within the dream
before it all began
was there something to see
Sixty-eight! What the heck. I look in the mirror and see another me.
I am twelve inside. Can’t anyone else see?
My sense of humor is hilarious just like it always was.
I am young at heart; I still run from the fuzz.
I am a giant cuddly peace-loving hippie, who did not make it to Woodstock.
I would have but my parents would not allow it; which I think was a crock.
I was in high school then. I should have gone to Berkley.
But I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, so stayed home. Was still perky.
I want to tiptoe through the tulips, catch a ride with a communal VW van.
Painted with yellow happy faces, bubbly daisies and a peace-sign hand.
I will play a ukulele and sing folk songs louder and happier than Mama Cass.
Look at my face, my friend. Sixty-eight. Come on! I am a 17-year-old lass!
I see my eyes are fading. Arthritis makes me limp a bit when I walk.
But inside I am 19, a real beauty, with a heart that doesn’t squawk.
Sixty-eight. You’re kidding! At the most I am twenty-two or twenty-five.
I lived through assassinations, bombings, Viet Nam. It’s amazing I’m alive!
"The Third Christmas"
IF I had thought about where to begin,
I wouldn’t have begun.
This is the story of us.
A family goes through the war zone occasionally,
intermittently, say every ten years or so
or possibly a minor tiff each year
over a Christmas re-gifting
or a prodigal unwanted
sits silently, mouth closed,
crowding the wanted
or an over zealous family member,
commencing with good cheer,
destroys a precious moment,
thanks giving becomes
an alcohol fuelled debate
an argument for living
all forget the forgiving
silent night becomes
kristallnacht
pathologically
fear replaces good cheer
Some families are an entire War.
Politically sewn and sold, egos bruised.
Years can be swallowed up
in strategic artillery campaigns
Who comes
Who goes
Quiet assassinations
Back seat driving
on the right way
Home
The Third Christmas
How to avoid being again.
Just so you know
you are not alone
Decorate the Heart with Snow
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/596k7K8l5JA
The psychedelic oranges and greens of the seventies
Brought scads of foils and flocks into homes that had been
Saturated before with flowered, and vined wall papers.
Nehru jackets, hippies, flower children, and Viet Nam soldiers
Permeated the news, saturating our breakfast newspapers.
Colored TV is exciting, but worth the extra expense? Not sure.
Children are joining communes, making new families.
Questioning their parents, their politicians, and the war.
A war which the young soldiers are not allowed to question.
Religion is losing her grip on the family.
Sex is no longer blatantly reserved for marriage.
A revolutionary time brought about on the heels of hero assassinations.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the Kennedy boys glancing down
From their heavenly seats, wondering what is to become of us.
I wish I could say things got better….
Those bones are salted;
Spread around the skull by orthodontist;
The artist constructs he's faultless
The face of the faceless one:
Abandoned be at the holding a gun;
Menus heat it up in the political kitchen;
Christians rights to raise their arms;
Freedom Liberties right to bear arms;
Strike them dead, coffins lined with lead;
Must save the Soul and Spirit from the nuclear fallout;
What in Heaven's name are you talking about;
Freedom's Liberty to bear arms;
Assassinations of innocent bystander;
Bullets flying through the air everywhere;
Your mothers and daughter's crying;
No one's around real right the right to bear arms;
The face of the faceless one
I have a right to bear arms
Someone take this out of my chest;
My body's riddled like broken glass;
This at best,
Mankind's political system stinks?
BANG?????????
MY GOD today I just been SHOT...
10/19/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr
An Earther hath said
Adam was a rough draft, Eve
was the final yield
Abel and brother Cain was
the product of their own sin
*The 'Earther' was probably a known feminists as she had a tiny following present along with her. She was outside of a church (she says she's not a member of) espousing the above, constantly, using her natural voice--no loudspeaker, as services were ongoing (I was just a passerby on the way to a funeral nearby). In her repetitious rant, she says that she only wear bras on Sunday's, whereto, 'twas a Sunday and she proved it by wearing her bra outside of her blouse in view of passing children and leering unsaved men. This was in the San Francisco bay area circa 1980, after Moscone/Milk assassinations and Jonestown and prior to acknowledgement of AIDS. They were the saddest years of my life.
Date: 06/14/2019
the 60's and 70's
a blur of confusion
death was always near
the end of the quiet
the start of the loud
assassinations!
spit on the soldiers
riots in the streets
nothing has changed
except now the overly pampered
protest over nothing
We were there,
but we weren’t
We took part,
and we didn’t
There was war,
with all affected
There was death,
and some objected
There was music,
we got lost in
Assassinations,
left us frozen
Alienation,
drove us inward
Graduation,
for beginners
Half a century,
now forgotten
Ten short years,
in time begotten
Raged a storm,
of hope and wonder
Alive today,
—a distant thunder
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
The moonlight crusaders,
Fabled hounds of the night,
Stalking the lands of the father,
As harbingers of the Third Reich,
Though hounds in title,
They are united in blood,
A purity forged by wont of reprisal,
Against the carnal natures of the descendants of mud,
By committing essential assassinations,
To eliminate the enemies of Aryan liberty,
And the people of Germany.
From their birthplace in the sea,
To their mountainous retreats,
They stand alone in defiance,
To multi-ethnic reliance,
For if one is already superior,
Why intermingle with the inferior,
A tragically righteous mission,
Globally rejected before consideration,
Then persecuted by the powers they dared to contend,
To awake the world that was blinded,
By the self-proclaimed victims,
Of a purge that killed millions,
In their new front they lie in wait,
Behind the trunks of trees and calendar dates,
Eager to prove in what they've said,
That their armies lie dormant but not dead.
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