They make our social life organized.
I respect rules. I dislike fake proudness
Treat everyone fairly.
consistently one should put these rules into practice.
That lead us and guide us safely through life in organized ways.
Rules are an integral part of our social and economic life and Behavior.
As well, main part of the functioning of society.
However, savages don't want order and tidiness.
A savage is like a balloon,
appearing huge to people.
But, in reality, he's almost nothing positive.
Full and shiny on the outside, empty and ugly on the inside.
He has no noble purpose. Nor true real faith.
Arrogant and conceited!
The most despicable of people are those who despise others.
Rule above all.
I love rules!
God created us equal.
Yet, some people are abusers and racists
exploit others and treat them badly.
They are hypocrites, flattering the powerful and the rich.
They are selfish and exploitative of the weak, the poor, and the needy.
----
I do respect rules
I dislike the savages
rules are rules that's all.
---
27 May 2026.
Softly, I handled your cheeks with much care,
That caress your nice jaw as I draw mine
Closer, closer and gently without fear...
Which love driveth out; both soft lips to dine.
A kiss on val. while you hang out with friends,
Can not easily let go of your touch;
Absence could silent what moment's stress blends...
While presence dreams in memory, kiss fits such.
Lonely but owing the heart ought be whole
But living the wish of a dream much real,
To survive through time's test controlling soul...
Strong enough as a player with no deal.
Protecting temporary tempting space...
Timing exploitative desire off trace.
We first met when I was young.
Curious, expectant, open-minded
We explored each other freely,
Communing face to face
Sharing everything
Seeking each other's company, together
Under the open sky.
Middle aged we met again.
Striving, over-reaching, exploitative
We looked to our own advantage.
Stormy clouds gathering
On the horizon,
Presaging dangerous times ahead of us
Under the threat'ning sky.
Now I am older I see her
Dull-eyed, disconsolate, all too aware
Of what we were and have become.
Her cycle confused,
Stripped bare, ripped apart
Craving to be isolate, for solitude
Under the darkened sky.
She will still be there when I go.
Forgotten, unrecognised, unaware
Of what we once had and had lost.
Her nature restored,
Newly clothed, new born
Thriving in her renewed joy in life
Under the spring sun sky.
On-Sight
There aren't many who see me-
Those few view me in the
Words they say
"speak" me when they
Glance away
Their inner ear "attuned"
Their "knowings" seek invitation
To an inner, sacred place
Long ago barricaded from
"Exploitative" desires-I can
Not promise entry-
I LIVE here, and must protect my space.
Still; there are
a few...
Whinging utterly pointless, act
To change the perception you project
Cursing utterly uncouth, exercise tact with the contact
Whom you desire to reject with the respect
They least expect even when they suspect
Their exploitative tendencies piss
You off big time as you ought to protect
The best asset you own even if you don’t diss
Repellent contacts from whom you gain
Pain and strain as they pursue self serving agenda
But claim they’d do their level best to regain
The trust you once offered despite their utter disregard of the gender
Balance which in the new millennium
Projects fairness and awareness
Of the high premium
Socialites put on the happiness
Parties to a social contract deserve
In the way they die for each other
Sacrificing without reserve
Ensuring on each other they lump no sea of bother.
Watching the extinction
of the paleo
as the death
calls
them
to the crank lab or product
or the prison and psych-ward.
Those that are still here
await Jeff Foxworthy
for exploitative representation
finding
Dale on the the King of the Hill
solace.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Saint Valentine, supposed,
ushering forth with love;
your tender anniversary with a whip.
A chocolate kiss, with calloused hands,
assembled;
vacant, listless eyes without;
...neither seeing nor feeling love.
Every drop of corn syrup, unfed,
corpulent and fetished;
whose essence lingers 'pon the lips.
Every drop of ebony perfum, 'pon breath;
staining the love of virtue and couplehood;
staining the ignorance and denial;
whose fingerprints of a child
seep through every morsel you ingest.
You ingest pain, you ingest fear,
you ingest exploitation
and you ask for more.
You call it love but is it?
- Another reminder that the chocolate you eat or give out as gifts on this worthless
holiday has most likely been farmed and harvested by children working on a pittance and in
harsh exploitative conditions.
Every penny you spend enables this torturous exploitation to continue.
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