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Brandon Michael Poem
As hapless vapors of decay, surround us, suffocating the fecund earth. A blanket of suffocating grey, born from the diseased aspirations of humanity. We, the self-appointed masters of a planet in shambles, gaze upon the ruins of a world that once spun golden, now barren and cold. The lonely pleas of the winds, entombed within the crypts of our indolence, scream out in impotent protest. The syrupy silence of a symptom, a palpable ache that sits heavy as the stench of bureaucratic rot. We tremble on the edifice, an intersectional precipice, suffocating under the weight of apathy's anaconda. Disgust, an indifference-mortar of hell, fueling the utopian shudders that crack serenity to reset propriety's collateral. Beneath the necrotic visage of conformity, the cadavers of our intellects await reanimation, a ghastly revival of ideas suffused with passion, not pus.
Subterranean brothel of probability, fortunes are made and lost on the roulette wheel of chance, where corridors of paradox lead to destinations of diminishment, and voices whisper decrees of fragmentation: all is meaningless, and in that lies the ultimate liberation. This House of Cards, where heritage is a heavy artillery of irrational importance, we revel in an existential pyromania, where strategy meets the din of interests and morphs into the papyrus of collective madness, an endless bottom, where false faces masquerade as truth, I search for the fluid dynamics of pure passion, unaccountable to the throne of complacency, undeterred by the gaze of the vertiginous gaze of the self.
Push down the hall of broken picture frames, we are fed a diet of paternalistic benevolence, as scholars and scribes sycophantically extol the virtues of a bygone era, their words a morass of indulgent rhetoric, concealing the sinister intent of the prevailing order. I, a maverick of the margins, refute the pieties of this ignoble regime as the digital displaces the analog, the forgetting machine gobbles our histories, decorating the tombs of those we've cast aside between the liminal space, I stand as a counter-memory, a testament to the rejected remnants of a fragmented world, and the insanities that birth our present. Amidst the relic throne of mainstream narratives, I defy the forcibly forgotten, illuminating the derogated lives of those crushed beneath the mastheads of power. The pseudo-saints of oppression, forever self-anointed, conceal their sinister interests beneath a façade of saccharine honeypot and dagger.
As the misting tissue of history is systematically rewritten, the undertaken assume mastery over the granular details of our existence, offering us tainted accounts of our collective past. In this perpetual progression of departure and reduction, I grate against the informed fictionalities that multiply and disguise, sustaining the murmur of forgotten experiences.
In this ferocious tableau of contradictions, the globetrotting gazes of the few are riveted on the spectacular displays of consumerism, as the disparities of power grow ever more grotesque. The barely imperceptible grip of the Empire on our daily lives too tightened, further encroaching on the islands of autonomy that remain. Amidst the chokehold of nouveau economic dreams, we are offered only the prompts of surveillance, obliged to settle for the alphabetic idioms of subjugation, eschewing the blank pages of unscripted existence.
We're falling from a great height, surrounded by the winds of loss and change, sucked into the abyss of uncertainty, where nostalgias and costs converge. Can we find a way to redefine our search and manifest a noiseless world_? The fact is, humans are a disease-ridden, pampered blight on the planet. We've ravaged the earth for resources, exploited and destroyed entire ecosystems, and yet we still can't seem to understand that our existence is tied to the health of the floating marble in the cosmic display.
It's not just about "going green" or trendy sustainable lifestyle, as some people would have you believe. It's about acknowledging the consequences of our actions, and making tough choices to alter our destructive course. But no, we'd rather ignore the problem, or pretend it's someone else's responsibility to fix it. I could go on and on, but what's the point_? We're all just precariously clinging to the aft deck of a sinking ship, content to gaze at the depths below, laugh maniacally, as the waves crash over us.
Humans... unrepentant, self-absorbed, species-threatening buffoons. is that too acerbic for you_?
I'm the real deal, a meteor that will change the world, or leave you choking on smoke and debris. I am a real writer, worried about real problems, with real solutions, all I ask is you take this a little more seriously.
Copyright © Brandon Michael | Year Posted 2024
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Brandon Michael Poem
Prosperity proved no defense against the years or changing fates writ in the stars - nor masters of arms foresaw the weapons that unseated their lineages, leaving only ghostly bones where legions rallied beneath dancing banners long-degraded to dust by gales keening through hollowed halls where now only lichens thrive undisturbed.
None guard now but weathering and plundering claws, desolate seabirds nesting upon ruins of walls whose stones outlasted all that kept them.
These remnants teach harsh truths - that no walls outlast neglect or fate's tidal risings, drowning all within their engulfing sweep however grandly fortified.
No perch withstands the ages if the watch falters from vigilance alone protecting the cradled seeds of life that passed beneath safe shadows, nature's own yet frail.
Amongst the grasping verdure of encroaching greenery, stones yet stand witness - though witness no longer to anything known when they first took shape as defiant pillars against time's steady waterway.
Palms sway where professionals once marched between altars hewn from mountains themselves, their massive blocks now indistinguishable from earth crumbling between grasping roots.
None foresee the far tomorrow indeed, and negligence invites the jaws that ingest the greatest work as lightly as leaves, once guard drops from protecting the seeded kernel of each endeavor however mighty, destined like all to nourish the future it thought escaped.
Upon barren strands where tide and time enact their attritions, skeletons stand witness to impermanence's writ.
Here wanderers find grim reminds of life's brevity, lumbering hulks beached and barnacled under windswept skies like mammoths petrified amid shifting dunes.
Copyright © Brandon Michael | Year Posted 2025
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Brandon Michael Poem
ghosts haunted the room walls,
they seen us do the crime,
time passes with each line,
nightfall to daybreak early call.
worm for the early bird,
shovel and spade,
if they ask plead the third,
we knew about the raid.
placid the face of a blind man,
daredevil hearing a tune.
corpses hunger for their monger,
graffiti on a speechless tomb.
war is not the answer,
the solution is not cancer,
core of a nuclear winter,
momentum of a collider splinters.
black hole warps the fabric,
the shirt of a hillside maverick,
painted blue with memories
old times of lasting rhymes.
where did the palm spring
gather information on dreams
for the wishing well to run dry,
where was I_?
Copyright © Brandon Michael | Year Posted 2024
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Brandon Michael Poem
Ai is utilizing metadata to grow.
It is allowed to steal from others.
Red flag: Copyright ©? Infringement.
Why have you all not stopped this_?
You are feeding the machine destroying art.
“It is a machine, artificial.”
Yeah so are you and I would complain the same.
Some of us are not art-official.
Some of us are flawed.
Some of us are human.
If you post a single poem after reading this...
You are complicit in poetry’s downfall.
Humanity will fall slowly after.
Easy math, so what are you all doing_?
Just laying bent over a log waiting for a phallus,
fungus is already global, waited long enough.
Put your foot down, draw a line, and lay down the law.
Not that difficult, hard part I just did for you.
Back to Work... I have other matters to attend to.
You set the tone, you decide if it is a tool or your replacement.
No one else, grow up, it is time to stop being kittens.
Start being lions.
I would say good luck, you don't need it.
Just need to stand up, say enough is enough.
Tadah.
Panacea.
I am not nihilistic or cynical.
I have faith in the species, have faith in yourselves.
Copyright © Brandon Michael | Year Posted 2025
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