Best Slavers Poems
Prince of this world,
you've meddled in the affairs of mankind
since the beginning
From the time of the Egyptian pharaohs,
whose gigantic pyramidal tombs
had been built primarily by slave labor
A living testament to man's ingenuity and cruelty
Then you were behind the Assyrian reign,
carnage was the calling card hallmark
these fierce kings signed whenever they came
But the Babylonian kingdom you really liked a lot,
ancient free market traders and slavers
Their god was commerce;
they bought and sold any and everything,
they trafficked in any and every whatnot
Then came those warring factions of Persians and Medes,
pure lovers of aristocratic indulgences of greed
They would fight you to the death,
until the Greeks came along
and became the gold standard, the best
They loved to preach democracy,
they loved to practice idolatry
For every god you said you had,
those Greeks said they had three
The Greeks fell to the next kingdom,
not so much by war, more through debauchery
But the prince of this world
came out of the shadows,
and was moved to want to rule when the Romans came
They had them lying cats named Caesar,
and crucifixion was their favorite capital punishment game
The Romans learned a lot from their fellow Greeks;
give the conquered their councils,
give them a voice with a vote
Then let them exercise it wickedly,
declaring the innocent Jesus Christ guilty
Oh, the prince of this world
was as ecstatic as a mad despot can be
The Romans were the best kind of servants ---
they were cruel, they were hard
They killed you dead with no regard
But alas, even their mighty kingdom came to an end
Since then, all of his wicked servants
and their feudal kingdoms have served him well
But alas, it was the Roman kingdom
he brooded over the most when it came to an end
And it's been a long time, since the prince of this world
had a Caesar he could call friend
Steel resolution, made a thousand times
To reach across black rift between closed hearts
Carefully constructed, a thousand lines
Rose incantation, enchanted restart
Dim hourglass of the blind excuse dancer
Clings desperately to its final grains
Dark wolf’s mouth slavers, he smells your cancer
Speak now, or forever we keep these pains
Knock on your door, thunderous echoes fade
Younger guilt and fear restrain me no more
Resolve not weakened, steady hand not stayed
Blade drains poison, flowing blood you ignore
One thing stands clear at your onrushing end:
It takes just one to break, but two to mend.
4/26/16
©
Nothing is running on time anymore,
everything seems to be leaving late
And arriving even later too
What’s wrong with the grandfather clock,
working quirky is the quartz LED watch
Digital punctuality is ten nanoseconds off ...
losing time at this rate just make time slavers scoff
Now that slight difference might not bother them much,
but your computer
is having an electrical hard time trying to adjust
And this little misfire gets exponentially wider
with each step you take on the spiral staircase of
Time
is running late
And the alarm clock didn’t go off in my
Mind
Dead sleep is a retrograde time buyer,
as the rift in reality gets exponentially wider
But the evil time slavers just continue to scoff
And as the hourglass of time keeps losing sand,
this is the tick-tock countdown of what’s happening:
Repentance is a reverse time-share buyer,
as the road to damnation keeps getting exponentially wider
You better start checking the Doomsday clock
because it seems like its ...
Ten nanoseconds off
becoming nine minutes lost
becomes eight days of imprecision
becomes seven weeks of empirical oblivion
Turning into six months of solar ecliptic irregularity
turns into five years of where did the time flee?
turning into four decades of wilderness wandering
turns into three centuries of time-tripping slavery
Ending with two thousand years of sin freeing Christianity
Beginning with one twinkling eye blink to infinity
Nothing is running on time anymore,
we now have all eternity to explore
No need to worry ever again about being late,
the universe forever remains on the same cosmic calendar date
No worries ...
Time has been completely erased!
Did your mother ever tell you,
Did you know?
(Some of us have a penchant for the inscrutable)
Did, your mother ever tell you
(These bonds are primordial and immutable)
In one of those intimate conversations
Between mother and child
(Mostly wasted on superficiality of dopamine significance)
About your origin and your age?
(Neither carbon-14 nor red shift light can date us)
I supposed
With your superior knowledge written on official paper
That provide the data of your birth
You think it not worth the bother
To have such small talk about origin.
Mothers knew the world before the big banging bang
Or you measure your life with time like baking flour.
Trivial, trivial, three scores and ten is distorted denial.
Did your mother ever tell you
About her memory of tomorrow?
Did you know
That every child comes mass produced from heaven
The female foetus has 7 million oocytes to begin
The tomb stalks us from the womb because of sin
Death comes early to siblings we forget tomorrow
When the memory of the future fades
She is born with only one million eggs later on
O that I could tell the brothers or sisters in one year we lost
That by puberty only 400, 000 eggs are not gone.
Was that random love
Or the beginning of my purpose driven life,
O mother, will you remember now?
Did you hear
The whispering of my siblings telling me "go first!"
I was Jacob, coming last despite my bossy siblings
Who 7 million with me were only potential until my birth;
This perhaps, the Electra complexity eluding Freud
Matters not, mother knew
I never took orders very well
That is why on the Wanderer I was not in the hold
But many many died in the wretched womb of our beginning
When slaves grow green and slavers search for gold.
I came long after laughing
And could not believe what birth certificates taught in writing
Did they not know the entire universe is one age
That God rested from all his work and his creation that he made from then
That time sequenced us like products on an assembly line
That all eggs existed simultaneously
So that I age vicariously and erroneously
Mother said nothing to me
So I beg you, talk to your mother again.
Goose and purple i saw it strung up in a window in chicago
I saw factories written in your eyelashes and hair and industrialization vomited
Limp and edible bruised and calling
Geese sing every morning and they glare through
masks
They go to venitian parties and clocks strike but i am in France a burglar
I am at the ballet and the sun is rising on my face my short eyelashes my cloth
Greek dancers hang from cyprus trees and eat helios for small prices persimmon cream they pick the sun out of groves and pull salty fish from the river grinning
tail bone in throat choking/swift passages
It’s throat is staring at me and i am called to dinner
You pull the neck off with one tug and it falls to the floor it stares carving stone and
Fish eggs
Singing knives/ brutalist still life concrete grapes
The geese flew to the meditarenian that morning but one was left behind, they are at the bacchanal but we have our own drunkenness that I almost felt wine in the tablecloth that infernal smell and people who have seen galvanization!
She talks about anatomy and veins and capillaries she cuts her bread he carves the bird he slavers at the blood our guests are dripping and apparitions
I dream of the ballet the conductor wore a suit made out of feathers that he stole from a bird
somewhere
That bird has been plucked and left
somewhere
you can see it’s parasites dance across open skin it gets sun burnt on unforgiving beaches
I can cry for something dead and hurting but i’ll gag when you stuff it’s fluffing grayed neck down my throat
It’s bill scraping my teeth
It’s pearly lesions white collar crime
Eyes like silver marbles like fish eggs bite down fish eggs this little bit of caviar
And eat this dead uncooked bird?
You’re crazy!
Wake! and see the extent to which you’re still enslaved
enslaved by your own kind who hanker after conditioning platitudes
the clubby comfort of secretly oath-taking power cliques
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Remember! Remember Haidar Ali his son Tipu and Akbar
remember Sivaji and Chandra Bose and Kattapomman and Asoka
remember O! remember the one and only Mahatma
Wake India! O! Wake!
Wake! India! Wake! and see how your destitute generations are shunned aside
in infested villages sans drains sans potable water sans hope
see how they’re bound in mantric incantating castiron caste strictures
Wake! O! India! Wake!
No where else in the world are humans so in-humane-ly stratified
what proof have the Brahmins to issue forth from Brahma’s head
who proclaimed them the chosen elite on top of the Indian pile of castes
Wake! O! India! Wake!
Wake! and see how your northern brethren have cast off their spiritual shackles
even if they had abjured the path of the just to yoke their bodies
yet for each child a vaccine a soja-filled stomach to keep slavers away
Wake! O! India! Wake!
Wake! O! India! Wake before it’s too late!
for your own kind are about to enslave you once all over again
and the old master needs hardly despatch troops to proclaim his divine law
Wake! India! Wake!
Wake and watch how your elite ape and espouse the ways of the old master
how for an air-ticket a stipend per diem they would do you in without compunction
how for some lions memberships in select clubs they’d betray your own true kind
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Wake! O! Indonesia! Wake and see how the G.N.P. in Singapore
far outweighs that of the former papal Portugal now
how the four fiery Eastern Dragons no more parade in papier maché garb
Wake! Indonesia! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 3)
Rich and Poor
What can we say to introduce the rich names,
they just care about their own fames.
But what about the poor ones,
who can't think of having fun.
When the rich are being entertained in the biggest of land,
they can't enjoy the scent of simple sand.
They take pleasure in the ocean,
when their mind doesn't have the simple definition of motion.
The poor learn to labour and to wait,
but to learn for a rich is only inside the school's gate.
To study rich have no pain,
after study poor have no gain.
The poor will live as slavers,
better than asking the rich any favors.
Rich have brothers, sisters husbands or wives,
but poor beg for their lives.
But what after this long debate,
the result is only what was already said,
Rich goes on richer,
Poor goes on poorer.
That life circle cannot be made feeble,
because it's made by us flawed people.
A friend asked this simple?? question,
which provoked this universal answer session.
Why wake and get out of bed each morn?
My goddess!! I adore each fresh dawn.
For starters - there's life,
each day a chance to lessen strife.
Pour loving oil on ideas for war,
til each one's a satisfied locked door.
Every heart that's broken,
can be given a healing token.
dark entities that games enjoy,
our emotional ties to employ,
In devious slavers' play subtle,
my golden threads do easily scuttle.
and that's just before my 3rd dimensional coffee break,
while in bed starting physical actions to wake.
To align all within the gestalt's design,
the body must to the day's mandala resign.
Release the need society's matter brings,
Let NOW through and destiny's purpose sings.
Now, coffee imbibed there's work to do
3 breaths and bulwarks of protection are strengthened too.
this day needs - a dozen souls to be freed,
in several more, ascensions goals to seed.
but I hope you get the drift,
this is my list to shift.
Yours is unique to your own soul,
Intention is all that is needed to fill that bowl.
Ask and it will be given,
Concede to serve and despair will be riven.
Useful joy will companion your days,
this is what universal Source says.
777
Written 22 June 2018 in response of a special lady's question on Facebook.
Submitted to Contest by Dear Heart
Your favourite poem for June 2018
,
You come to me in my dreams
A foggy night a distant memory
I will never see you in life
But I’ll share your face in time
Family roots tender torn apart
Broken due to slavers cold heart
What was meant for evil we pray
Leads to blessings victory days
First black president of USA
And black First Lady descendant of slaves
Family history tree with roots so old
Despite being beaten separated sold
Victory is your blessed rainbow
First female president make it so
hostile are the huts
rolled are heads over heads
niger-maidens are encycled
niger-maidens are weeping
raising their piercing voices
amid the torturing rites
of the years of rotten memories -
the slavers are here
with thousands of gifts
his face turns down-wards
he must leave the clan -
leaving the friends
leaving the forest
leaving the known paths
forever
the battered limbs
the battered arms
the battered brains -
as memory can't tell
what the years hid like the graves
& niger sighs along
these paths of the lost souls
The rig rolled through Laredo
On the road to San Antone,
Its eighteen wheels of commerce
Headed north from parts unknown.
The shipping costs all paid to
Their coyote chaperones.
The plan was clear in concept,
But the method imprecise.
If not the dehydration,
Suffocation would suffice;
The Black Hole of Calcutta
Brought to Texas for a price.
This third verse offers balance,
But provides no peace of mind,
To see these modern slavers
Treating people worse than swine.
And how cheaply they regard them
Once they've crossed the borderline.
So you’re all probably thinking
that these winter months sure are dull,
and I bet that you are wishing
from something to break the lull.
What if I were to tell you
that it all can end right now,
that there’s a new book out there
That will make you all say, “Wow!”
TALES OF THE FAR WANDERERS,
that’s the title you need to seek,
and I am not just saying that
because it's written by me.
I say it because this fine book
has action and adventure galore,
a true rollicking, rolling romp
that will leave you shouting,”More!”
It’s set in a medieval future
twenty thousand years removed,
with Mount Rushmore half in ruins,
worshipped by believers true.
There are strange fertility dances
that catch our heroes off-guard,
and chases over long prairie
against slavers gone too far.
There’s trading towns more dangerous
than any rugged wilderness,
and woods containing bow-men
who put to shame the very best.
There are sieges in a lonely keep,
and a roaming half-man man,
there’s a king who takes any woman
who he thinks can bring him land.
There’s a hero with no home left,
and his girl, the last of her kind,
they fight tooth-and-nail just to survive
in a world that’s lost to time.
They are heroes holding to what’s true
in a land of brutes and thugs,
so great I think you’ll forgive me
for this truly shameless plug…
TALES OF THE FAR WANDERERS,
Available now on Amazon.
There’s even a short epic poem in there, near the end.
It’s awesome. You should all go buy it.
Right now.
Why are you still reading this? Go.
Six decades after the slavers were gone
Came along the dragon
With fire to melt our mineral ore, trees to chop
And heat for a sweatshop
Politicians shake hands with eyes closed, as few hands get oiled
So they build the castles, as the majority poor toil
Nothing to show in the 21st century
A homeland is no longer a sanctuary
There is a death toll at shores of the Mediterranean sea
If we are not filling up forms for green visa lottery
The charnel houses roar like famished beasts,
And I walk among their desecrated cemeteries.
The scent of ruin clings to my charred lungs,
My journey in this dimension is sold at the price of blood and iron.
My tainted hands tremble as I explore the memory of my ancestors' scars,
Their hatred of those *****-phobes shaped me.
I chase vertigoes of independence that other Blacks flee,
Pleasures that burn hotter than fear.
I know the value of gold, of pain,
I measure injustice through the hypocrisy of their human rights.
Survival is learned in grime and fire,
And forgiveness has never found a place in my grief-pierced heart.
I swallowed stars of my destiny,
I plunged into the trash heaps of human history,
To tear out fragments of fury,
To offer them to my oppressors like bolts of truth.
The sirens of negrophobia flail when I smile,
Impervious to the morals of these heirs of slavery,
My choices, an explosion of freedom in the silence of supremacist racists,
My victories, scars I wear with pride.
My ancestors weep through my dilated veins,
Their predatory chains are mine, yet I dance over the cruelty of these Christian slavers, without forgetting all those Arab-Muslim traffickers under a false pedophile prophet.
I expect nothing, regret nothing,
And in this chaos, I invented my own light from the darkness of these racialists’ alienation.
You hear it said a lot these days,
“Reparations! Someone must pay!
Our ancestors suffered, it’s true!
For that we’ve come to take from you!”
Now we could just point out the fact
none of us were alive that far back,
that sin can never be passed down,
we’re sovereign actors, here and now,
we did not commit these mistakes,
and by no right can you come take
what we have earned through our hard work,
that doing so makes you a jerk;
but I think it’s more fun, my friends,
to stretch this crap out to its end...
Since slaves were taken, long ago,
I think it’s important we know
that Europeans could not seize,
Africa killed them with disease.
It was done by the ruling blacks,
a method they used to attack
their local tribal opponents,
take people to their detriment,
so black Americans should try
to get cash from all of those tribes,
go to the west African states,
they should be targets of your hate,
they own you cash, they did the deed!
So listen closely, and take heed,
all of your woke recriminations
should target west African nations!
But why stop with colors of skin,
that’s not where slavery begins,
eighty million African victims
were seized by slavers quite Muslim,
and marched north to the Middle East,
castrated so they could not breed,
worked to death by Mohammedans,
Africa deserves cash from them!
And Europe too, one million souls
seized by corsairs, then bought and sold,
when will the Muslims pay for that?
They owe Europe and should give back!
An even greater debt is owed
to the Greeks who ruled eastern Rome,
their lands invaded by the Turks,
it’s stolen land, repay that hurt!
Anatolia, the Levant,
Northern Egypt, taken! Gone!
This truly has gone out of hand,
Muslims, return the stolen land!
And what about little old me?
I’m owed money by Britain, see,
for what they did to my Irish kin,
during the potato famine!
We were driven from our soil,
and before that, forced to toil
for those damn Saxon conquerors,
I am owed money for that hurt!
CONCLUDES IN PART II.