they said work hard
keep your nose clean
stack your pennies like bricks
and one day
you’ll climb out.
but the ladder’s gone,
the hole’s deeper,
and the air tastes like metal.
soon there’ll be
a cast system—
you’ll be born tagged,
wired,
catalogued before you can scream.
they’ll weigh your blood
against a market index,
sell futures on your failures,
buy stock in your bones.
every hard hour
you break your back
will only push you
further into their registry,
a number on a glowing screen.
and when you spit blood
from the machine’s grind,
it won’t matter—
the algorithm already
owns your ghost.
dreams?
dreams are cheap liquor now,
poured in plastic cups
by the same hand
that stamps your barcode.
I am a Democratic Socialist
I believe that the People should rule
I believe that the taxes collected
should be used for each life-saving tool
For nobody gets rich on a island
and it isn’t just fortune or luck
It takes legislative-corporate corruption
it is capitalism, running amok
All those products the billionaires sell us
charging upgrades for every new year
Truth be told, if we just stopped the buying
it is they who would feel all the fear
For the rich only care about money
keeping Office is what Reps fight for
And the taxes we pay keep on feeding
the corruption that always wants more
Missing: Generic Brown Teddy Bear, and 6 year old
Bombs begetting bombs,
War mongers are safe and sound;
Others being bombed:
The bombing of others reaps
Bloody power over them
No matter who dies,
Nuclear war bombing pays off;
Bombs begetting bombs:
Millions spent creating bombs;
Trillions reaped from their bombings:-
War is a business,
Nuclear bombs produced and sold;
Low cost drones offered:-
War is for power;
So is capitalism:-
Just do the homework:
Democracy is one thing;
Power control, another:-
Watch the news on war today:
It’s about finance; not life:-
Why not target peace?!:
What peace reaps is beyond cost,
And invaluable:-
We all share in peace’s reaping;
Not just the power mongers:-
“O’!, work, work, work away,—ignore your thirst
and shovel steadily—keep nourrishing the coals
of locomotive life!(the cost is but your souls);
All other occupations?—to hell dispersed!
“Amen! your bosses, with cash (to be disbursed),
busy their hands with myriad controls
made to mold you for your determined roles;
Yes… yes!, because the silence would be worst!
“Aye! Men! your calling is made manifest!
my stores, my mines, my workshops, factories
come crawling, groveling on their sore knees
to beg: ‘Please! healthy muscle![sic]—invest!’
What else would you do with your God given time
if not that I could earn you my damn dime?”
A multinational corporation
Will probably sell your thoughts
In exchange of profits and assets,
More valuable than your freedom.
But can you stop them?
A real question.
Probably not, for you don't understand
The rules of this game.
I have played for a while,
And have had experiences like forever.
It isn't a game of your opinions.
I understand now.
A billion ants all march'd in line
Their Queen doth bruise 'n' bleed them dry
For these poor creatures, world stops not
And no eyes turn'd when one doth drop.
A billion ants all beat 'n' broke
Their minds be torn, their souls revoked
Be turn'd to slaves and free from trust
To feed their monster's greed 'n' lust.
A billion ants whom time forgot
Exploited, wreck'd, and left to rot
They work'd their lives for scarce reward
Their souls unbless'd by love, nor lord.
Three million more seek death or dole
Becometh not more hopeless souls
Thou master scorns and leaves to rot
This dreadful world that they know not.
the damned alarm howls at 5 a.m.
like a thirsty rabid dog in the dark.
I throw my bones into a threadbare suit,
and drag my carcass out the door.
the streetlights flicker, dying gods,
the freeway hums a tired hymn.
coffee burns my throat—
fuel for another round in the machine.
the boss with his middle fat finger,
his gold watch, his ulcer breath,
telling me I’m lucky to be here,
lucky to have this endless grind.
I move numbers, push papers,
count the hours, count the minutes,
watch the clock like a prisoner,
like a dog waiting for scraps.
lunch is a stale sandwich,
eaten under a flickering light.
I watch men in pressed suits,
laughing over steak and wine.
back to the desk, back to the screen,
back to the same dead dream.
the sun sinks, the city groans,
and I drag myself home.
a six-pack waits,
a cigarette, a sigh,
some mindless TV to fill the void.
then bed, then dark, then nothing.
the alarm I hate, howls again.
another day chewed up,
spit out,
like a lifeless roach, life is gone
Tonight I told ChatGPT that the refrigerator wouldn't shut the hell up.
The thing pathetically rumbles in the cheapness of creation in modernity, with constant muffled screams; brgggrr whrrrzzz brgggrrr, over and over again, haunting these apartment floors and walls, suffered by the corporal forms adorning them.
Obsolescence looms with an intended vacancy for contraptions and their users in the void of capitalism.
Constantly replaced by cheaper and cheaper specs of dust floating around the Sun, expanding and shrinking ever yet, until sucked into themselves by self-created event horizons.
After I told the AI the appliance wouldn't silence, it silenced.
I hope for we the same.
There’s children growing up that believe the stars
sound like crickets chirping,
for their only exposure to these sources of wonder
are through over-exposure to blue light and radio waves
and soundtracks overlaying simulations.
The night they know
is bright as day,
lit by “satellite internet constellations”
or fogged out by the price of progress.
They don’t understand what it is to stare upwards
and be humbled in awe.
That’s what’s wrong with men today;
they never look up, never gaze around.
They only march forward on a path
marked with dollars instead of footprints
and fail to take heed of the wails around them.
But at least one day, when
we’ve siphoned the earth dry to fuel
“achievements”
(greed),
when the cities are burning from the debts of desire,
the children will look up at the stars that aren’t stars
and hear real crickets chirping
and they won’t be afraid of the end.
sad and lonely inside, like a hollowed tooth with cyanide
groaning and bemoaning about the market, the trade, the money in his bank, thats who mr cottonmouth is
a very rich man with a house in his south
who whines and pouts, while others put his fires out
his tongue is long and split, with two little twins that drip
be careful, if you work for him don't trip, don't make him flip
he'll rip the stage, and try to mend the page
with the same greed that would make your mouth go dry
and like an animal, crass
or a poor child cornered in class
if you ask, why he basks so in the glow of his so called foes
he'll say its me or them, i deserve better than their pen, while he bawls and points, at the street
but if confronted with any form of the truth, it's almost comically as if theres a little cute cat, holding his silvered tongue, straight to the roof
he'll start to mold, his mouth like a snakeskin wallet that can't fold
filled with unpaid bills
but his voice won't go shrill, or squeak, he's adamant you see
that it was "them or me", refusing to believe
that he has soured all the nuts, giving them an awful bitter smell
Just like the days of whaling
Your capitalist regime is failing
What is your idea of order
War,rape,plague and disorder
You will try any old trick to keep from
Floundering
But only the mast can be seen
People have awoken
Had enough of your poking
Will you set Europe on fire
Maybe the rest of the world
Just to hold on to your idea of equality
There is no equality in your eyes
The masters of money
It's ok nobody really believes your ideology anymore
People are tired of just surviving
We all want to be thriving
Not just the few
Yes the tide is rising
You better look for a new trick
And make it quick
Because the time has come
For your head on a stick.
The headline read: “Low deposits and fair repayments!”
The offer of a lifetime, the promise of a lifeline for you and those you love.
But “deposits” aren’t just in money when we’re low in depositing care,
“repayments” still reek of capitalism when many don’t see their “fair” share.
The advertisement seared in bold font and burning lettering,
reminding us to always want more – there’s nothing worse than settling.
In the u.s. where commerce's banners unfurl,
Lies the tale of capitalism's whirl.
Legally we tread, seeking success,
As souls entwined in this grand excess.
In systems built on mutual gain,
Exploiting gaps, we forge our domain.
The currency of cunning minds at play,
Where laws protect, but conscience may stray.
Striving, we push the boundaries wide,
Trading kindness for fortunes, side by side.
Yet let us ponder, as we climb high,
The cost of ambition, the values we defy.
For in this dance of profit's embrace,
We must remember, as we race,
That success is hollow when built on another's plight,
And true prosperity thrives in fairness and light.
In all places in the world
buy here, sell there
that's how we earn money
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