Dear Children,
the best of the worst,
or the worst of the best?
Do you really have a choice?
Was that ballot card marked,
stacked, and counted,
long before your birth?
The Love Memorandum
Still breathing
Living still
From oceans deep
an immortal spill
The waters testing
in the fullness of time
What’s in your heart?
Who’s on your mind?
Having received
the Love Memorandum
from Planet Freedom
Regarding that love
that doesn’t change
in the wildest of weather
and through all that’s strange
Of love forged
in the fires of forever
Love that gives meaning
and substance
to this existence
A love that never fails
like the latter rains
of a summer harvest
In Search of a Subversive Opus ~ No.7
Selling Out ~ by Nitin Lalit
I was tired. Now, I know that that’s the worst way to start a story, but I was fucking exhausted. I had spent eight years of my life writing poetry …
Selling out
In Search of a Subversive Opus ~ No.9
Poets Anonymous ~ by Cara Feral
Hi, my name is Cara
and I am a poemoholic
It’s only been 24 hours
since my last sonnet
And it’s been 13 days since
the last time I’ve used the words …
Poets Anonymous
Stairway To Bedlam
ATTENTION ALL ANGELS:
Please use the elevator located
in the foyer. This stairway is no
Jacobs Ladder. Thank You.
~ The Management, CLUB 27 ♣️
I Just Don’t Care
I just don’t care
who you follow
the stuff that you say
and what you think
that you know
In the deepest despair
from way down below
through haunted streets
I’ve driven that manic
and heavy traffic
to a place where
even the light retreats
And I’ve known
the sweetest caress
of a gentle whisper
that roared like a tempest
through my very soul
Pure Heroin
That driving heat
radiating off Wall Street,
an insatiable power lust
where total control is a must.
But it isn’t just the money, honey
that wets your appetite
with pretty maids all in a row.
Like the lines of blow that flow
up your nose
from way down below.
Supreme Courting ❤️
Exhibit A:This Nominee is no RBG 💔
On that case 👉 I rest my point.
DAVID REDPATH: (EXHIBIT A)
Democracy Is Coming
Mister Stork
In the lounge room of my childhood
there’s this little box made of wood,
and when I open it’s varnished lid
up pops a proudly painted stork.
A cigarette wedged in his beak
with the promise of something good.
“Care for a Peter Stuyvesant?
They’re tailor made for the Jet-Set!
You’ve been on a plane,
and you’re a big boy now,
all of nine, so try one of mine.
You’ll find the taste most pleasant.
Ignition … prepare for take-off.
Never mind the cough.
You’ll soon be feeling fine.”
