He stands, golden, cloaked in ruin’s thread,
A radiant god among shadows that writhe.
The scorch of brimstone lingers around him,
Perfumed on whispers where lies take flight.
Hell’s legions bend the knee, adorned in silk,
Doctors, judges, priests, throats stuffed with power.
Their temples gleam with duty unspoken, rotten.
Mouths curl prayers that burn in their teeth.
Apollo waits, for 40,000 breaths of time,
A king of truth in deception’s masquerade.
His hands, a forge of judgment, white-hot.
Will they kneel? Or crumble under his gaze?
Servants wear abundance like shrouds of virtue;
In boardrooms, clinics, altars stained sacred,
Their words, a balm, empty. Ferocious as shadows.
The cigarette flares in Apollo’s cold hands.
Touch their foreheads, he muses, then marks them.
Pain is worship; they sip its poison.
Do they hunger for freedom? Never, they crave;
The one who loves will weigh them all.
The sun god waits, his mercy feral.
Not wrath, but a decision, shaped in flame.
Each condemned by whispers they thought sacred,
His light reveals: the truth has wings, and teeth.
Attending an ‘SDS’ meeting
Watched ‘Democracy’ take a beating
Listened to strident, long-haired voices denounce the USA
shilling for Marx, Hegel, and Lenin all the way
As for ‘law and order,’ it was ‘Kill the Fuzz.’ ‘Off the pigs’
SDS ‘big bad wolves’ sure got in their digs
"Boycott Israel, the apartheid state"
Accusations against South Africa could wait...
‘Systemic racism, colonial imperialism, a fascist President’
The SDS in 1969 ~ blazing trails for today’s arguments…
________________________________________________
"SDS," Students for a Democratic Society, was the 1960's
forerunner of the 'cultural Marxism' infecting universities and
even some corporate boardrooms today.
Because once a time in a round mud hut
at the edge of the bottomless of pits,
I know that a three- or four-year-old roars with his gut
And he wipes snot with a broken jersey that barely fits
Because on the ratchet corners and bended streets
A growing child runs dust on tracks that gone bicycles drew;
And on his shined cheeks a laugh draws and sweeps
And he basks in the pastoral sun like a songbird and crew
Because the year is 2000 or 2001
And a child’s barely grown father must run to the city.
He must beg— (for working’s sake) ‘til pride comes undone—
The city that spurn him benches, toilets, parks, opportunity
Because ghosts of the ghoul that a people slayed
still lurk and parade office parks and boardrooms,
a child’s barely grown father must wade relics of Apartheid
In spaces of bigheads where he dances mops and brooms
Because a three- or four-year-old is now twenty
And the heirloom in his father’s stock is but lack;
I must work the same zero and struggle as plenty.
I must be black.
casting away all pieces and parts
of an existence full of casual talk
of board rooms full of rage
lost bodies in burning classrooms
full of philosophy and apathy
on foolish babble on time
lost and found morality
memories based on foundations
of aimless travels
looking skyward
casting thoughts incalculable
emotions of love
hate or disdain, unimaginable
full of the rage n pain
playing the blame game
who are we to say
rooms full of empty views
the apathetic feuds
glass shards, crack
crazy crystalline harts
like falling cards or raining stars
as bodies burn in lethargy
casting stones into the ocean of tranquility
small are the thoughts that ripple large
reflections hard as yesterday’s tomorrow insane
cast away photos in a scrapbook of memories
pieces n parts of arcane life, disregard
full of white rooms and silent storms
staring into the mouth of madness
casting all way the pieces
parts of an existence full of casual talk
in classrooms of apathy n despair
watching burning bodies sitting
in boardrooms full of misery
looking into a city, feeling its toxicity
counting the bloody beads of a rosary
From his hands white, hang blood
diamonds and fur, keys to boardrooms
and shoes shined for climbing
ladders, a cushion upon which to sit
at the table. The eyes of a black man,
glittering, see a seed in his hand without
soil in which to sow. An Indigenous
woman’s face fades from a missing
person’s poster, one of the Canadian two
thousand. A millennial dresses for a party
as an American Indian, red stripes on
their face, drunk in a plastic tepee. When
you grazed your knee as a child, what colour
plaster covered your skin? As one family tosses
out cartons unopened, bought but not
eaten, another father stands counting coupons
cut, in a queue snaking. I introduced my
boyfriend and came out; you just brought
your girlfriend round for tea. Somewhere in
Central London a polar bear was spotted
sweating and thin, trawling bins for scraps.
If I were to collage next year
I’d place bronze across gold
and third over first,
stick paper upon electric,
paste glutton below thirst.
If I were to sculpt next year
I’d chisel women into boardrooms,
chip away white to reveal colour,
smooth borders, fences and walls,
curve catwalks with something fuller.
If I were to paint next year
I’d splash rainbows over churches
and shade Xs in boxes to stay,
I’d smudge pay gaps, titles and labels,
etch over surgeries, filters and Black Friday.
But if I were to sketch last year,
using invisible ink I’d draw a stage, ruined,
without watercolour I’d wax a bridge, rammed apart,
in fine liner I’d retouch a city’s cycle path, attacked,
keeping a vanishing point in sight and restart.
So if art was time, and I free to design,
I’d graffiti the White House
with handprints the paint of all races,
I’d stencil love above hate,
and erase hurtful mouths from all faces.
Gold Rush
Today I have been watching burly men
with heavy machinery despoiling Alaska
in a hunt for gold, and when they have gone they will leave
the heavy foot prints of man behind; a mutilated landscape!
The mining companies are doing the same in Africa
for their relentless hunt for riches, but all we see is boardrooms
and nice suits legally plundering the land.
Where I live no one is interested in the olive and carob trees
the soil is meagre suitable for beans.
So, for now, we can dwell in peace.
some bedrooms
are boardrooms where
mouths mutually write
cases in black books
from evening till morn
The winds of war are starting to howl,
rumors of war beginning to spread even now
Emissaries of governments speak lies at negotiating tables,
full of vomit of distrust ...
as the gathering storm blow those past crushed bones of dust
into the roiling air
Fear mongers go down into hidden, subterranean installations
to prepare
for the looming destruction that will rain from the air
Death don't care
how many bodies will be littered
on the ground everywhere
The foul wind begins to blow from the gathering storm
Merchants of war congregate in their smoke-filled,
dark boardrooms ...
Dividing the spoils from the soon-to-be laid waste lands,
and the vomiting of distrust begins again
Territorial maps will be shifting with the wind,
as multi-national corporations confess their inside trading sins
to their false profits and false gods
Baleful winds of destruction is howling at the door
The gathering storm of war has arrived
upon the shore once more
Falsehood is shy truth
he hides when the sun shines
whispers gently in moonshine
runs away from smart guests
peeps up sleeves in discussion
lives in cupboard in boardrooms
hangs in the roofs courts
dances and celebrates in dark
comes out in bedrooms
shouts when victims departs
An ape field is characterized by the numbers of bananas who climb with care through long grass. Much is the secretions of melons attempting a tango. Whilst lemons lie down on billiard tables. In boardrooms. Globally. Into enter internal ancient places. Lit with shafts of sunlight. Dusty areas omit the past through air channels. And a decorated camel coughs and burps. His eyes accustomed to eras. And his soul attuned to the ground. Tut tut tut then but no tutus. Merely a great magnitude of being. In stature placed. And in scrolls explained. Texts are not modernity they are a firm of a diary. To foretell and predict. To climb through to the chamber where planets can be seen. And thus joining energies to another house. Containers arriving a filled and leave. Yet often hiding from mankind is a source. How utterly incredible then. A very tall tree. Golden leaves and pale boughs'. Intricately formed lengthy branches. Discuss not with scarab beetle. As it wishes only war. Sand sanded steep steeples sagaciously. And now point in to a blackness. Xxxx and treatment of a society xxxx no hahahaha today xxxxx characterisation z. Octavia x
Find me in classrooms
Frantic page flipping in search of
the tools
Who'll one day equip me
So I can make rules
Find me at the helm
Bare-foot and big bellied
Home-makers to boardrooms
....And woman tells you what to
do
Stereoptype make me those
types
Opposing sex finds it perplexed
A timid female's muscle flex
Lady, don't you show your
strength
Woman, lay there
Here curves so fine, her hips so
fair
Born to be spent
Please him, please him
Bear him an heir!
Bear him nations
Honour him with cause for
earth-shattering celebrations
Family portrait
-Picturesque-
Yet I am portrayed...
As part as a future that I did
not choose
They took me from school
Paint me heartless, silent
canvas
Muted muse erase my colours
Deafened maestro sing in
silence
Made of soil, a bag of bones
Numb my soul
So I won't know, how
Wretched prison locked its doors
Who sold my dreams to cement
floors?
Who stole from me my room to
grow?
How I still breathe
I'll never know
I lost my soul
When I was sold
An artist smashes thick flaking paint the canvas seethes in boardrooms cigar doom winks
fat killers with gold rings crack their fingers melting glaciers flood the cities of rome union
jacks old glory tears flow down cheeks of countries shaking in war boots marching to
screaming huts of the breaking countryside clinging to ropes splintered wooden fences rusting
milk cows squeezed dry boarded homes soldiers sleep in spit gods stand in stone drinking
winter cathedrals yoked with old women in flowered dresses white pearls and rosaries
touching their hearts singing prayers behind eye lids shut windows and locked doors mute
crying sirens of the baying cities
Silence splattered across the page
Riding on deeply buried tides
Climbing from treetops into hills of tomorrow
Life never exists the way the say
In boardrooms and across chalkboards
They just know what you're likely to eat...
The sun shatters cobwebbed dreary polite peace
Too glorious now to remain unmoved
For those with windows and eyelids to perceive
Everywhere quicksand pebbles shift
The glory of the sky urges me
To believe differently, everyday to the utmost
An open page is calling with folded arms
Invisible typewriters are pressing their tongue
Nomads invited to roll out their carpet
echoes cry unto the night
street fires erupt from burning vessels
hostile takeovers from empty boardrooms
melting pot full of lost dreams
euphoria fills the midnight air
tantilyzing treats of mass destruction
various colors of a nation bleeding
desperation grips us from the core
paradise is no more
yesturday becomes a myth
tomorrow is bet on a lottery ticket
words are banished
luck is borrowed
fingertips scraped for identity
tongues cut off to stop wars
menstrual cycles become holidays
television is no longer used to transform our children
blackmail is as common as the flu just more deadly
mars and jupiter are the new earth
the world is taking over by robots
we are no longer us
now we become what was
just a little food for thought
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