Modernland has legalized murder, they roll these streets
Billyclubs in tow, those weak are taped and tortured
Throw'em a gun and a bullet grinning through glass
As those who suffer pull the trigger, bang
Darkness isn't evil, the real monsters are people
Art is rebellion, they want Armageddon, life isn't Christmas
They decide who gets presents, I'm number one
On the naughty list, then, some call it divine intervention
Others say entertainment, I say sacrilege to the manes
Your anonymous blog
To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely persuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
— Zumwalt (2011) (used by permission from zumpoems.com)
The world drowns us in problems
Then expects us to breathe solutions
In a society that demands whispers of lullabies rocking them to sleep
Whilst we deal with the havoc they wreak
Safe in the silence of their homes
Black women have to deal with the chaos outside alone
The white man's mess becomes the black persons job
Our pay - racism
Seems familiar, reminds you of anything
Maybe, a modern day version of slavery
No rest for the wicked they say
So why are the oppressors still sleeping
The good are punished
The evil rewarded
I guess we just live in a one-sided system
Where being a victim, makes you a villain
Our worth determined by how much blood we pour
The more we bleed, the more we are adored
Our pain is entertainment, they'll never get bored
For them it's like a cure for the common cold
Like an answer to all the world's problems
For them we are a sacrificial lamb
Something to feed off of, then be rid of the scraps
The story of our lives
Used then are blamed for our cries
Then are denied of our rights
To be humans not slaves
A mother walks through bullets for bread
A child through shellfire for a sip of grain
Young girls bleed in corners quietly
Toddlers die in mothers' arm from thirst.
This is the plot, world is writing on,
Poets, presidents, painters even parrots
all scribbling words on rubbles and ruins.
An aid truck hums like ice cream van
drawing children to their deaths.
Graves are homes, morgues have IV drips
beeping machines mourn louder than mothers.
This is the setting, leaders are banking on.
Protestors, professors, publishers even pilgrims
all parading pain for policies and propaganda.
Camera's click as children chase compassion
Aid drops flutter like dying doves
every countable rib is a bestseller,
Prime time feeds on man-made famine.
This is the climax, audience is locked on
Photographers, producers, preachers even podcasters
all packaging pain for premieres and praise.
This is the modern-day Macbeth where power demands
we slit our conscience to wear crowns.
Guilt is a graveyard and every prophecy is screaming
from scorched soil to sear our souls.
A soldiers Plight:
War evil Orders
to murder the innocent
subjugate morals
Al Juman style haiku © 1/12/2025
Palestine
anticipating
life dying trying to save
death from possessing
Oh Palestine!
your resilient people
hungry in rags still steadfast
steady prayers kept
Justice can’t be served
in Gaza blood soaked stained sands
200,000 lives massacre
Oh Palestine!
your blessed secret smile
purge my mind with good daily
you are my prayers
in the form of the readymade, now occupies a place in the void, you look at the size of this dewdrop & remember Andy Warhol, who was the first to begin this session in Tate Britain
after ‘The waste Land’, by T.S. Eliot
I met a woman on a glitching screen,
her face a whisk of pixels and prayer.
She spoke of shattered systems and survived code,
“The cloud remembers everything,” she said, "but forgets what matters.”
A rat hurried through my feed at dawn,
past memes and headlines, each a kind of omen.
I tried to fast-forward spring,
but April clawed through my notifications anyway.
In a thread of ghost towns and tagged regret,
I noticed a cafe with no floor, only static,
A man sipped Espresso beside a socket,
charging his distress while waiting for replies.
Data rains in blasts, all prediction and pop-ups.
The Sun sets in Beta,
and we refresh the silence,
hoping for something new to load.
For then, below algorithms and ash,
a bud breaks code in cracked concrete,
muted, untagged,
but blooming still.
They kept finding different ways to lynch us
Oh we're still spectacles
They just watch from their smartphones
Watching as we struggle
Watching us be tackled
They don't see us as victims
Just waiting for a pundit
To say we deserve it
Let's not forget about the 13th ammendment
Instead of being slaves they just entered our names in the system
As an excuse to reduce us to numbers
Instead of being slaves we were just labelled as criminals
Technically 'slavery' was abolished
So instead of being whipped
We were punished
With imprisonment
They just found a loophole
A different form of control
Don't get me started on the education system
A place where our history is hidden
A place of division
And preferential treatment
Of a certain race of students
They do it just enough
To remind us of our place in this institution
A constant reminder of how we will never fit in
All because our skin which triggers their racism
If you think racism has ended
Then you're choosing ignorance
You need to be educated
But us black people won't do it
Petrified zombies march
past displays of potato starch
Onlookers stop to gape
at what’s depicted on their capes
The clue connecting all this
floats upside down in the abyss
Freedom is a bird with broken wings in the modern world, trapped in invisible cages of indifference,
Reflecting destiny as a silent shadow, the immutable aspects of existence embrace us with cold arms,
Death, an artist of limits, carves the boundaries of our lives with the chisel of relentless time,
Each human being becomes a prisoner in their own freedom, building an invisible prison with choices.
We are born free, but the irony of fate makes us builders of walls, raising barriers between dreams and reality,
True freedom is not political, but a delicate dance between choice and the inevitable,
The possibility of self-realization becomes a play of shadows and light, a duel between desires and limits,
How we confront our boundaries becomes the ultimate art, a commitment to destiny in each day lived.
In every choice, a window opens to infinity, but we fear to look beyond the bars of habit,
Destiny calls us to embrace its rigor, to make it part of our daily story,
True freedom is a silent rebellion, an acceptance of the inevitable, yet an exploration of the possible,
In this world of contradictions, we find ourselves, both captive and free, creators and prisoners alike.
Computer say’s no!
We are trapped in the gloom
Software is broken
The office is a tomb
American tech to you we plead
Save the day and our voracious greed
Look out! Here comes the tumble weed!
We have become a dormant seed.
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