clouds
mutate
shapes shifting
into demons
hovering over
abandoned warehouses
as big city dreams vanquish
barren driveway going nowhere
my final thoughts fading to darkness
Old men
sit in wheelchairs, drool
warehouses for people
he stores his grapes
and warehouses his
wine
he grapples with men
and has concubines
his mighty hands
grasps these men
his strength so strong
it comes from within
might he fight
and stand jis ground
folk shall come from all around
his down fall
shall come
from a whore
the one his son
worships and adores
he to is caught
in her spell
she divides their loyalties
but who can tell
wet behind their ears
they whisper words
speakest not
of what he's heard
fallen, fallen
the men of Babylon
have fallen
he ye great
wrest upon the shores
fallen, fallen Babylon the great has fallen
comest out of her
the men then rejoice
she makest them sin
they comest in her together
lest they know-est till
she speaks of he
he who hast
been with her
the night before
lest you take part
in her sinful ways again
fallen, fallen
the all the men have fallen
take part of
her sins never again
fallen, fallen
the men of Babylon
have fallen
greet her as friend
the concubine is gone
Masters of theft
Morally retarded
With devious stealing methods
For people, today they steal
From them, tomorrow they steal
Skewing the popular concept of morality
The execuTHIEVES among rodents
Leading players in series of shocking scandals
With gross misconducts running the gamut of vices
Devious financial dealings and embezzlements
Shall I compare thee to rats?
The societal rats in human clothing
Faithless shipmates, residents of trash heaps.
Even candidates for public offices
Stripped grain warehouses
Eaten entire field of tomatoes
And other vegetables
Waves of tree climbing rats
Have stormed orange groves
And devoured the fruit
Roof rats have descended after the dark
To nip at sleeping children and adults
The then 'holy' one,
So easily stoop to thievery.
Wallowing in wanton moral filths
Manifestoes are less important
You only appear to take a satanic
And moronic relish in splashing thy vulgarities
Into the face of the public
Unless thou anchor thy knowledge to moral foundation,
The ultimate result will be dust and ashes.
Dust and ashes that will bury the hopes
And monuments of men beyond recovery
Trashcans of intellectual waste
Crushers of recycled ‘truth’
Warehouses of stored lies
Slaughterhouses of unspoken dreams
Hiding behind Ivy walls
Covered with malicious intent
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2013)
we buried our beating hearts in sordid soil of this urban wasteland
while the acid rain burnt holes in them quickly
one hundred factories blew sick green clouds out and you took me by the hand
through forests of chimneys breathing deeply
diving in cities of decay and filthiness there's no need for futile words to speak
our countless phobias are just burlesque of pain
dazed we walk down the streets of distant memories through days so bleak
and wish naively that we could run away
staring into the howling voids of desolate warehouses makes our minds hurt
that's why we ramble along the cold rails
and dream about sea air instead of smoke and dream about concrete jungles that burn
burn burn burn alone in their sinful ways
Korea’s Ticking Time Bomb
North and South Korea at arms race heaven,
a massive number of weapons all waiting to be used –
tanks, guns and bombs.
One war was enough but nearly fifty years have passed
and so it’s time for another.
North uses Migs and howitzers, South uses F-16s
and cluster bombs all stockpiled at warehouses and airbases.
Have these people lost their minds?
Making law with the barrel of a gun
thinking that they are gangsters at an international level.
This is Korea’s ticking bomb,
with North being the explosive and the South the fuse.
In the thought of a dream, a reach from behind
In how things seem and the reasons that I find
The warehouses of the mind and what we deem
Mixed among the daily grind so rises the cream
As we float to the top each reality already known
Not being a time to stop in knowing we've grown
To the top we rise as no one else will even strive
In turn they despise the whole time they're alive
Such a sad sight to see in such a stark separation
For they choose this to be as their part in creation
In having lost their worth and so being cast aside
Problem with earth is it fills you so with such pride
The cream will soon be taken as the rest is tossed
Like all those who have forsaken and are truly lost
The processes is nearly done the machines shut down
Done comes the Son, this cream is headed out of town
Apparently, they ruled with an iron fist
In the chilling jaws of Terror
Of men intoxicated for the kill
Salivating for blood of kindred
Free for the rape and extortion
In the bastion of Kismayo, Port City of Somalia
The crooked reasons of eating oneself
In a serial bloodbath of a nation
Usurping its nationhood
With straps of IEDs on their back
Women and children convinced duty-bound
To kill themselves for their innocence
And live the glory abound
But never to taste the fruits of their sacrifice
See, what has remained of the Port City
Except for the glaring ruins
Battered to a city of Charcoal Warehouses
For the shanties to scorch in the sun
In a neighbourhood of orphans and widows
And the maimed bearing the signatures!
Oh no! but wait,do you rely on your unborn for a future?
Young people meander
through dark streets
in the night hours,
and brighten the walls
of grey buildings
with rich colours
from spray cans.
In the beginning
were drawings of animals
in dark caves,
and that hunting spirit,
confined to concrete jungles,
among stifled lives,
releases its energy
in drawings and images,
brightening inner cities
with vibrant decoration
on plain doors,
and the gable walls
pf warehouses
in the city's docks,
giving structure to the lives
of Tomo and Gismo.
A little too late for Christmas isn’t it?
The toys are gone but Santa is back in town
Giving out gifts and coating cities with baking soda.
The warehouses are overstocked with it
Cities and towns are overwhelmed with it
And its victims are running away from it.
The white world stares innocently at the sleeping crowd
And the snowman sitting beside the corner house
With pink pointed nose and seven black whiskers
Awaits its tired visitors. His black cap with light blue
Emblem attached to the center, sits comfortably on his head.
Maybe it's a landmark for someone to establish a location
or a marker to indicate that someone is there
And so the snowman with the black cap on
Is attracting visitors from everywhere.
©2015 Christine Phillips
Future time; is unknown
and has custody of our dreams,
Present time; the transience
of a bestowed moment,
Past time; varies
and warehouses our memories.
There is no envy
of where we live:
rundown apartment complexes,
dangerous housing projects.
Poorly zoned business districts
whose warehouses cut through our landscape
like the tombstone's of giants,
sitting tagged and vacant
from a boom that never happened.
We are a single community
divided amongst ourselves;
a dozen or so quarter mile barrios.
Each fiercely guarded
by angry, misguided youth.
They bleed to protect something
that’s worth absolutely nothing
for reasons hardly above reproach.
This is the land of concrete and graffiti;
broken knuckles and broken hearts;
the place where flashes of light
break the night and sometimes,
we die.
This is the crazy west side,
the youth wrecker,
the damager of all who dwell.
This is home, where the guns go off.
The smell of leather,
Stirs the Auschwitz warehouses:
Leather reminders.
___________________________
Inspired by the Auschwitz Shoes
Fading in the crimsoning dusk,
like a predator stalking a prey,
the gray fog stealthily creeps,
crawls through dilapidated
warehouses in the dockyard
long abandoned by the years;
a dockhand squints through
cobwebs of a sooty window,
shadowless symbols of ships
that had come, gone long ago;
his drunken ears could fairly tell
which tolled as the funeral bell.
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