The rebel
Line of inquiry:
“Neither desire nor aversion
Meditation our immersion
Conditioned beliefs discarded
Hymns we hum are our own version”
Strongly I feel, I am longing for “A” one;
Justly I be intense desire;
Personal how be it drawn;
I fight against authority;
I am hierarchy;
Best be believe in me;
Repugnance, to do paired said desire;
Masting said, FIRE,
feelings of dislike, repugnance bio;
Unwillingness to do something see,
One thing paired with a desire to turn away
Subject matter dismantled, swayed
Such a soul dissident, I am a maverick;
Under baptism totally involved in an activity,
or subjects matters;
Deeply I am focus;
Midst the Hocus-Pokus;
Hymnos be still my Song of Praise;
Earth and Heaven raise my name;
Purpose of adoration, I be of royal deity;
I am the Him in Hymn, really!
worship someone or something through song;
Not conceited, I’m exceeded
A Revolutionary nonconformist just an Insurgent
Never am I ever flaw, nor wrong;
I live trapped in a basket of predators,
their skulls crammed with futile idleness.
They celebrate misery like a morbid feast,
with the suicidal arrogance of heirs to nothingness.
The flames of humanity have burned away
in the abyss of their barren souls.
They worship the anarchy of weapons,
I see nothing but fields of ruins.
Their battles are the masquerades of capital,
poverty spreads across the Earth like a plague,
and the closeness of deprivation becomes a nightmare.
I spit upon their rotten idols,
those false sanctities with profaned orifices.
I have piled up sins to taste the ecstasy of raw freedom.
Born from the wounded entrails of the Third World,
I refuse to bow before the putrefaction of consumerism.
Free from the origin, yet prisoner of a banana republic
delivered to the savage plunder of predatory empires.
I fight my demons in the trenches of the mind
to adorn my reality with fleeting mirages of this convulsive world.
They consign me to the dungeons of their alienation,
but I rise, insurgent against their servitude.
Heed call insurgent
One life lost is one to much
Hear, peace is urgent.
Like fisherman caught
Using earthworm as live bait,
Catch fish through its mouth.
I leave with my verses
a fire that burns perennially
between insurgent emotions!
Why would Bearer of Abel
Be acting like Full Rebel,
Laughing at Nation’s Anthem
In songs killing its Rhythm?
A lot of smear on her rubbed
While trying to have her snubbed;
Already gone a long way
To from her break clean away;
Smug in a nice chair cushion
But drowning in her ocean!
Now, Scary Revolution.
That breastfeeds Dissolution:
Easily The Emergent
A child soldier insurgent …
Really, we have an Abel
Disgracing The First Abel.
the scapular of your anguish
wounds the insolent chest of your enlightenment with blood
a world in disenchantment cries its drunken hymns
but only jackals lick the nectar of these pains
because the night drives away the naive and innocent
and it is with the irreverence of the lost that we cry out loud
trying to defile every throne that rises against us
the time will come when we will immolate the new messiah in fire
placating the wrath of the raging oceans and their deities
the insurgent skies and their merciless stains
we'll bring back a forgotten golden age
and then we'll set all the new traps
to drain for the last time the voracity
of every idol that is eternalized
when we stagger weak across the earth
and we allow them to enslave us.
1. She is sweetened
This heart just beating
Comprise so entreating
Beautiful eyes of a lamb
A beating heart insurgent
Beautiful
You are
You are my heart, and it's beating
~
2. Her eyes are red
From crying so sad
Unhappiness this she dreads
Because her heart has missed beat
And thriving is the beating heart
Intertwined with mine
Beautiful and kind
Chorus: A beating heart insurgent
Beautiful
Beautiful you are
You are my heart and it's ever beating
Reframe:Oh' precious Heart
So endearing love
Whispering dove
Angel eyes meadowlark
Insurgent a beating heart
Beautiful
Beautiful you are
You are my heart and it's ever beating
1/13/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
What might be the matter
With our next-door Martha,
Her rash mischief steady
And she, by choice, heady;
Content to seem an Eddy,
Her gross slaps often ready
Last week, the cheeks of Freddie?
And her guy who is intelligent
Keeps betraying more The Belligerent
Our own share of Satan’s Sergeant,
For his weapons include detergent
And maybe, tomorrow, A Reagent!
A huge surprise they call him agent,
Who thinks and acts like an insurgent.
I keep espying an aggressiveness
Of catching sureness and silliness
I’m drifting away from who I once was
Being a quick silver,
Turning into a hypocrite
Carping about the sense of becoming void
And contorted of turning pedantic
But then I sense a chime
A drone reminding me of the propaganda
Realising I dispelled all those lovely carnations
Turning into an irreverent and impertinent snob
After all this, I must profess
I’ve kept a clandestine detail
I am an assassin to my own optimism
Because my conscience was rumpled,
Unlike the rest of the race
I am obligated to emulate the civilisation
Remain a stitch among many others
Embedded on the same fabric
Pierced with an identical needle into the fancy work
However, forth with I’m determined
To distort into an insurgent soul
To stand out of the counterfeit
Whose deeds are ditto of every mortal
Though petrified and vulnerable
I must proclaim
I will give solace to my entranced spirit
By embellishing my ordeals
And rummage through the potentials
I will elicit every sounding,
And forge every refrain
At no time relinquish my sauntered footpath
And yearn for evermore
Was there ever a rebel
on the inside looking out
By definition he’s outside
—his legend to shout
The insurgent, his tactic
playing Russian Roulette
Holding the status quo hostage
—with fear and regret
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Each day I am born into a symphony. Tones and chords eloquently choreographed in minor keys of insurgent melancholia. Lumbering contrition escorted by virulent humiliation where no penance can seem to be found. A drum beat of loneliness as bitter as flour, marches an aging reflection that can only scowl and mock. This beat, beautifully and relentlessly recited as a tempo for horns. The onomatopoeia of these horns is my recalcitrant social seclusion, played by the trumpeter that is my refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to me. The horns, escorted as a prisoner by his guard, are the strings. Strings of repetitive failure drawn by the bow that is my incompetence and inadequacy. Each morning, I awaken to Mozart, to Stravinsky, to Mendelssohn. Each embodied by variations of my own melancholia. Each piece written so perfectly as if I were only ever meant to feel this way, that I cannot close my ears. Each days emotions crafted for me with such care, that I believe it may lead to some heightened level of introspection or enlightenment, that I force myself to learn to dance its waltz. And, each day, the piece comes to a close with no edification to be spared to me.
Wandering amidst the cosmic pieces,
the tiny star moves ahead.
shadowing along nature's quest,
and surpassing nature's tiniest thread.
With the sharpest vibration,
it manoeuvres above the galactic abyss.
Entrapped, in the gravity of celestial charade.
Distorting the restrictions,
it pulsates to the gates.
a sound so unknown drives away,
A sonic boom so makes it insurgent.
encompassed in the harmony,
it crafts up the path to end.
surrounded with the galaxies,
dancing to the tune of the triad.
Vibrating pulses thrill the cosmic bed,
a mystic nature the light creates.
gazing at the end of an abyss,
the tiny star starts to emancipate.
Add More Fizz By Taking a Quiz
Why not to your life try to add more fizz
By breaking a balloon that became a pop quiz
Then right after that taking a short hop
To what eventually became a Mom and Pop Shop.
Shop was full of poems we have just heard
From mostly mundane to the completely absurd
(Sounds like my neck of the woods)
They even have thrown in some Bible verses
Which said best choir is one that rehearses.
So instead of becoming much more belligerent
Or insurgent locked into rules that are stringent
We here believe in equality of all the races
Hope Texas will lend us some wide open spaces.
Jim Horn
Farouche.
By Feo.
I am shy child la rock,
Self - effacing, who seeks harmony,
A maze of thought,
The introvert from the clan of the bizarre,
Planted in the decaying garden of sympathy,
The seeds - demons of devotion,
Alone together,
Bashed and befuddled, at dawn till dusk again,
Distinguished from the average victims who devour relations,
To rot in fire and brimstone, to burn in the flames of misery, to soak in the thirst of knowledge,
To question life, to ignore our meaning, to make up the rules of freedom,
Curious of the other half, who hasn't been discovered,
The birth of Lucifer, the first rebel, our descendant,
The birth of man has yet to happen, until we destroy ourselves,
Pawns of myth, believing in the belief in divinity, to automatically warden the unbeliever, who may be unity,
The redundant, my brethren, hymns of the fatherless, raised by the virgin,
The saint of oafs, drink my blood and become lush, never will you be excommunicated,
Blood that runs thick with revolt,
Inspired by the insurgent, to be the future revolution,
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