Freeborn John

The birth of socalism,

born on fields of British dead,

Irish, Scots, English, Welsh.

Betrayed by the long hand of a

parliament that despised the thorght

of suffrage and democracy.

That rattled the chains of martial law.

The Masters held the whip

and hold it

still.

Landinclosed,

wealth held by earls.

So suffer the poor.

A totalitarian army marched on the

Irish pesentary.

Shots from the firing squad pierce

agitated flesh.

The press was fervently repressed.

The Masters held the whip

and hold it

still.

Landinclosed,

wealth held by earls.

So suffer the poor.

Men dragged from their beds,

Wife’s, Mothers, Sister’s marched

with potitions of release.

But bodies swayed from gallows in

the wind.

The Masters held the whip

and hold it

still.

Landinclosed,

wealth held by earls.

So suffer the poor.

Freeborn John,

taken from the tower

to the chopping block.

From his blood the seeds

of socalism sprout.

Collars

 

 

Subcultural Appropriation of an object

obediently worn by sub’s lovingly put on by owners

Now owned by the mainstream,

that fails to recognise its meaning.

Fashionistas adorning collars.

Unconcious objectification.

You’re telling us you have masochistic tendencies.

For some, the collar you’ve put on

is akin to a wedding ring.

But I doubt very much TPE would be your thing

 

 

 

 

 

Observing A Monday Conversation

Monday detaches itself from the rest of the week, a singular moment, not governed by routine. Twenty minutes ago, the two people who walked into the bar, were acquaintances, possibly colleagues. But something convinced one to ask the other to join them for a drink and conversation flowed as it does in and out of […]

via Obseving A Monday Converstion — OKWrites

Piss-artist Philosophy

Smoke

Smokers don’t need to be reminded that what they do will kill them,

they need to be reminded they are pushed a product disguised as choice

by companies who deal in drugs.

Advertised as habit to make it seem like giving up is easy.

But disgusting images and bold black letters

do little to deter those caught in the smoke.

Hidden under shutters to hide a drug that eyes can’t see

but the brain thinks it needs.

Its not enough to say don’t start.

Lets see whats really going on with smoke.

Children  employed   on farms for a pound a day

picking plants so poisonous it gives them cancer.

tobacco  companies open shop in countries

with human rights abuses so long whole countries

stopped TRADE with them.

Open lies told in open court.

There are no health risks to smoking.

Then there is the addiction

it’s easier to give up heroin then tobacco.

The reason 599 chemicals added to each cigarette

keep you hooked despite nicotine being naturally additive.

Smokers are social  pariahs maby,

but they were sold a product by drug dealers who walk free.

dealers disguised as corporations

who who deal you death.

Don’t start because you’re told not to.

don’t start because you’ll be feeding a monster,

money and that monster wants to exploit you.

Basement Skate

The sound of your trucks as they grind

slide off years of ollied concrete in a echoed under croft

Tags and multiformed street art that’s been organically reforming

for forty years

Sweat drenched artists who take pride of place,

in a spot that’s brutal but made beautiful by their presence.

Adding youth culture to the already culturally rich heritage of the south bank.

The pride felt by those who fight concrete land snatchers

to keep intact their land that they grew and grow in.

To move them would be yet another nail in the coffin of youth.

Who don;t need any more humiliations

by those who lack comprehension,

of what it’s like to live in a city that takes every opportunity

to remind them that they are nothing more

then second class citizens.

Stand along side them to keep

the beat box

tricks and drops

 

alive

Coke Fiend Blues

The cocaine will kill me but the beer will fell me I’m asleep and awake but what’s In between. I look at life with a sense of clarity as it merges into a blur I can dance till I cry but I’ll more likely drink till I die. I’m a creature of habit more a creature then man. You can recognise that broken look in my eye, Years wasted at the end of the bar. A smile on my face as wide as the line that I’m about to snort. I look at the notes in my hand and my fingers tremble. I hope the feelings pure but the chances are it will be: Cut Cut worse than shit Shit down my nostrils will drip. A rolled up receipt will do as a hoofer covered in snot thereafter. Abandoned on the lid of a bog for some desperate twat lick at.

I’m standing here looking back at a child who is eight.
Who sits on his mother’s knee and tries to formulate
and punctate words written on a page,
A boy who’s pears dictate with such ease words like
Jack and Jill back to a teacher who sits in front of them
hand hands out praise that comes in
forms of brightly coloured stickers.
All that broken pride a mother felt when sat in front of the same teachers
who had to listen to the constant criticism
time and time and time again.
Repeated dictation
your son is lazy he does not work and words or numbers,
 he fails at basic listening!
And I will never forget the tears that we both in equal measure shed
as we were both ritually humiliated by teachers who
miscomprehended misunderstood a gift I did not ask for,
but have grown to love,
yes dyslexia is imposable to fucking spell.
and so a boy of eight sits on his mother’s knee,
and tries to decode some of the codes of the English Language.
Finally he reads he reads.
And when a summer of reading ends and back through the gates he goes,
the older me will look down at the younger me and say it was not we who
failed by your system because all we needed to learn to read was a
book in front of us on our mothers knee.
And the younger me looks up at me and encourages me
to write words and love words and read books so that,
we might win back some of those wasted years in education.
      

Connected Words

Rivers of words ebb and flow 
into an ocean of words
Words of water evaporate
and form clouds of words.
Storms of words cascade
onto the earth the life blood
of language.
We are all words
unique.
Words written on the page
of a book titled the universe
huge and expansive
it contains all words
created all words
is the word.    

I Preach Death!

 I preach death;
 yes I preach
walk those who
 do not wish to listen.
Demons we have
within us,
all of us.
No these are
not otherworldly.
Psychological constructs,
we have with in the mind.
And one of these
I wish all of us to kill.

The ego must die,
for the better good.
The beast that lies within us
must ourselves be rid.

To you whose ego
you have become
show us a glimpse
of your beauty.
For I see no value
in the persona
you have put on.
Show us yourself
that it might be
a hideous thing.
Better that then
this thing that is
not really you.
And to those
who wear an ego
to disguise,
the world
hardened self,
Kill it, Kill it.
Become yourself.
Let those who meet
you want to know you
and befriend you not
your inflated ego.
An imposable task you say.
No I disagree.
Work it takes to know the self,
hard work
dedication
to the whole of you.

Yes the ego has its place
but no mask should become
a substitute for the self.
So to those who are your ego 
Kill it and let as see you.