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Watermelon War

This is the first foray into an episodic retelling of the history of the world. It is intended to entertain, provoke thoughts, and evoke emotion. Should it do so, please comment.

Also note that lacking feedback, these posts will likely disappear into the nothingness from whence they came.

stranded ship

The passengers have all disembarked.

They came to fulfill their rape fantasies and left with fistfuls of shiny things that would never get returned.

They crashed into us like the waves that brought them here, wrecked our souls as if they were without light.

They invaded our sanctity, created false gods for worship. But the truth is, they are the devils.

From high upon their horses, trampling all that grows beneath them, even though it grew there first.

Tavern

They were all drunk by now.

They harass us, threaten us, shouting over greetings and walking all over the welcome mats placed for them.

They refuse to abide by our norms, our beliefs, our traditions that existed well before they were conceived.

They wrote history to dispute the truth, then disseminated lies and propaganda while we were being erased.

Such noble warriors that rose to protect us, were slaughtered in the mocking face of uneven odds.

Their feeble detractors went to hide and write letters, claiming yet not denying the wrongs of men of action.

Our dissidents remained, joined the righteous in the hopeless battle that you know has not yet been won.

You see the effects, yet choose to ignore our plight. That makes you complicit, fully belonging to their evils.

And our brave warriors rose to fight against impossibility, since all that has happened cannot be overturned.

The acceptance of vengeance begins to taste more like the bitter poisons they left behind inside of us.

Our institutions protect them, set up protectorates with goals of compliance and subservience: their ideas.

So the rules were made up, and now those who are wrong are justified as right. The innocent are criminals.

railcar transport

Reinforcements arrive.

Their enforcers arrive. The scouts will be named saints in comparison to these machinations of oppression.

Bigger guns, the intimidation of a people already mourning the losses of the previously eradicated generation.

Aimed at retention of their gilded thrones, rust covered and seated with rotting souls. This is preservation.

dead gathered

The dead.

And despite the strength of our spirit and our souls, our lifeless bodies are just as weak as theirs.

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Grasping At Straws

Children have drowned in buckets and toilets.

You are the straw that would break my camel.

Traversing the desert hundreds of days.

No food, no water, just an oasis.

Illusion of friendship always denied.

Grasping at, clutching an unreal image.

Abandoned when I needed forlorn hope.

The rest, they’ve forgotten. You’re not the first.

Only a parallel string universe.

My days are reminders of what I lack.

And my nights are relief until I wake.

I am falling behind, finishing last.

It’s time to be done; no future with smiles.

I’m so hungry, but my appetite fails.

Starving for fulfillment I’ll never have.

Embrace the end, there is nothing beyond.

Release will come when the coward is slain.

Learning how to let go, with no regrets.

Alleviate the pain and suffering.

Nobody sees the weight that crushes me.

Behind the wall of fake smiles and lies.

Internal reflections of what will come.

The calm of my descent from the living.

Consequences considered, not abrupt.

Minimize the disruption of impact.

For once I will be happy all alone.

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Scattered Showers

The Rain People

When it rains, I die, drowning in despair.

The acid burns my skin and grinds my bones.

Until I’m left as a soaking pile.

Satiating the earth that absorbs me.

Pulled into the depths. Recycled remains.

Millions of droplets dissipate at last.

Treacherous torrents kept my vision blurred.

I can’t tell if I’m crying, not quite yet.

Perhaps it will subside. This too shall pass.

Once God is done playing his silly game.

“The clouds are danger! They hinder our growth.”

Said the little saplings who needed light.

Promise of the future, when the rain stops.

They can’t reach the stars if not one shines bright.

Full of potential and futures unseen.

“What happened? I watered them every day.”

Said God, who built boats, but couldn’t plant trees.

Preference for humans passed, not present.

“With whom do we escape?” Cried the flora.

As the fauna turn, marching, carry on.

Left by the wayside. Wrong side of the tracks.

Once you belong, you can’t ever turn back.

Abandoned to become stronger, for them.

Distant, but they feel your warmth and kindness.

So that they may come out of their hard shells.

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Girls who Smile

Smile! Welcome Back =]

(Photo credit: blentley)

She has an easy smile. Different light.

Other men toss and toil. She shines bright.

She can’t understand the struggle that binds.

A different perspective, a wasted life.

Time won’t heal your wounds. Scars are eternal.

Forget-me-nots ignorant of have-nots.

The privileged station is undeserved.

Children in the eyes of suffering men.

Longing for caresses and hands held tight.

They kneel before queens, but won’t challenge gods.

Detestably aware, unspoken words.

Crown and glory for salvation of none.

Bittersweet moments. Losing momentum.

The bear trap closes, locks the soul in tight.

Forbidden fruit is the rotten apple.

Sworn fealty to the innocents who cry.

Forgotten miscreants, subjects of pain.

Trying to get by in your world, so cold.

Shallow, hollow, farcical bed of lies.

Face in the mud, the dirt covers slowly.

Until all that is left are our remains.

Untouchable for a moment in time.

Only in thought. The message was not passed.

Carry on the burden, the weight’s not bad.

Only time can heal the wounds, while she smiles.

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Socialism, Parasitism, Psychosis

Published by the American Psychiatric Associat...

The hands of time do not allow us the luxury of hindsight, else we would see our truths become realizations and our misgivings left by the wayside. There are far brighter minds than my own who predicted the future but never lived to revel in such glory. These men were thinkers of their time, some of them actors as well. They understood the world and it systems, and left us with the half-assembled pieces of the puzzle. New developments shed new light on their theories, and I wish to reaffirm here their verified correctness. The development of capitalism has proceeded along a certain path, and the purpose here is to highlight three stages: socialism, parasitism and psychosis.

Many men pick apart the ideas of Marxism, though the detractors tend to be largely unread. The ideas were the purveyors of future men of action, though this first elaboration came not from man but from Rosa Luxemburg. The idea to highlight from “Reform or Revolution” is the first stage discussed here, that of revolutionary socialism:

In the manner of revisionism…the labour movement finds itself reduced to a simple co-operative and reformist movement. We move here in a straight line toward the total abandonment of the class viewpoint.

With this she emphasizes the futility of reform in achieving the victory of the proletariat over the bourgeoisie. We can see the flaws of ignoring Luxemburg’s militancy today. In Panama, “I don’t like communism” Torrijistas from the Partido Revolucionario Democratico continue to be pushed out of power yet are studious enough to note the declining economic and social conditions in the country. Panama has a service-based economy, and has grown more bourgeois than PRD politicians would like to admit. The same trouble from reform has been seen in Libya, where privatization of the economy laid the groundwork for foreign agents to incite a movement and an unfortunate revolution against a well-intentioned man. The utter disrespect shown to such a brother made me sick to my stomach, and serves as a bitter lesson learned in the case against reform. And there are more. Salvador Allende‘s attempts to reconcile with Chilean Parliament led to Allende’s death during a military coup d’etat. West Germany’s pollution of the Eastern Front preceding the end of the Cold War is why the majority of Eastern Germans feel life [was] better under communism. Finally, right in America’s back yard, the bourgeois Mexican government has been catering to the United States as their PRD shrinks into a minority coalition.

The second development of capitalism was seen by none other than one of our few successful revolutionaries, Vladimir Lenin. His ideas of imperialism being the next significant stage of capitalism were put forth early, and had he been later in the historical timeline he might have instead further developed his premonition of parasitism as the actual identifying feature of the stage he called imperialism. Parasitism is quite a simple concept for those comfortable with analogies:

the gigantic peril of a Western parasitism, a group of advanced industrial nations, whose upper classes drew vast tribute from Asia and Africa, with which they supported great tame masses of retainers, no longer engaged in the staple industries of agriculture and manufacture, but kept in the performance of personal or minor industrial services under the control of a new financial aristocracy.

Even the youngest student of economics can see parallels today, drawing to mind almost immediately the current situations in Iraq and Afghanistan. Iraq was the cradle of civilization thousands of years before Christianity, home to the world’s oldest writing system, the first and subsequent law codes, and the initial appearance of wheeled vehicles. Baghdad was once the largest city in the world, thriving and prosperous for hundreds of years before the British parasites latched on and divided the country for exploitation using their methods taken from the African continent. Afghanistan was different, the ‘Graveyard of Empires’, full of hardy people who have largely resisted parasitic exploitation throughout their history, apparently wanting nothing more than just to be left alone. We shall see what comes following the U.S. troop withdrawal that will hopefully show again a history of not succumbing to parasites. Haitians have not been so lucky, living next door to the giant parasite that is the United States. As interfering neighbors, the United States has not once, twice, but thrice returned the corrupt Jean-Bertrand Aristide to impoverished Haiti as a puppet president and agent of exploitation, only to be overthrown and exiled back to the U.S. each time. Finally, parasitism is also prevalent in the Philippines, where the United States intervened on account of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos, and of course the latter’s 2,700 pairs of shoes, only to see the couple overthrown by a successful populist movement. The Philippines of today is rife with exploitation, leading its southeast Asian peninsula in sexual exploitation and abuse, vying closely with Thailand.

Now we see a new development in capitalism rising steadily, that of psychosis. The term is used for its minutiae of definitions, most notably the “loss of contact with reality,” characterizing the cultural hegemony of the bourgeoisie and their resulting misrepresentations of reality. Allowing that social disorders are inherently developed through abnormal social relations in a capitalist culture, the numbers do not lie:

Mental disorders are common in the United States and internationally. An estimated 26.2 percent of Americans ages 18 and older — about one in four adults — suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder. When applied to the 2004 U.S. Census residential population estimate for ages 18 and older, this figure translates to 57.7 million people.In addition, mental disorders are the leading cause of disability in the U.S. and Canada. Many people suffer from more than one mental disorder at a given time. Nearly half (45 percent) of those with any mental disorder meet criteria for 2 or more disorders, with severity strongly related to comorbidity.

Allow there to be an assumption made here that the reader having internet access indicates bourgeois presence. Have you interacted with at least four people today? Well, according to the statistics, one of them has a mental disorder. This is a grave matter, and it is why psychosis seems likely to be the next stage in capitalist development. Only history will absolve me if this is indeed the case. Please forgive my lack of zeal. I have identified a problem, but cannot seem to puzzle out my place in its solution. Feel free to comment below with any proposals. Perhaps the kind reader will instead find themselves in the right time and the right place to implement change.

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Fury

Tarquinius and Lucretia

Dam the river, stop her tears from flowing.

Before her torment carries on downstream.

Tidal wave emotions that will crush us.

She’s been abused, and she will take no more.

Fiendishly simple, complex sensations.

Reinvented for her foes long gone now.

They think she forgot, stronger memories.

Recollection of what she couldn’t bear.

Their faces, the same. Her thoughts are insane.

Ravished and ravaged, she plans her revenge.

She doesn’t care who suffers. She will choose.

Hopeless, uncaring, she won’t spare the world.

The wrath of her scorn makes demons run scared.

Her scars have dried up, make her numb to pain.

So far removed from the child I knew.

She won’t hold hands, won’t even look again.

She’ll cross the street, the cars honk, she ignores.

A method of madness on a mission.

She won’t let the postman knock even once.

She wears her boots, curled under the covers.

Afraid of the darkness and men that come.

Weary and wary, it won’t happen twice.

Seal tight the valve, let nothing pass through it.

She closes her eyes and leaps off the ledge.

Once more, no one was there to protect her.

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Mr. Thinks T. Much

Curis photographed this. In his kitchen. I rea...

“You’re dismissed,” she said. No chance to ask, “Why?”

Aversion to his outward appearance.

Never touched, never tasted. Not allowed.

Like weakness on display. An exhibit.

Admirable cohorts. He’s not worthy.

He cares too much. Needs an explanation.

The few inside sit and ponder as well.

Time and effort, yet abandoned, misled.

Rituals and spells without libraries.

No patience to understand, grasping straws.

– make small talk, – flirt, – that’s how people have fun.

He just wants privacy, impassive lust.

Misread and misunderstood: problem child.

Peculiar and naïve; they don’t make sense.

Inexhaustibly romantic…loser.

Reasonable and directly at fault.

Intuition fails to perceive the truth.

Works himself to death to discover life.

Substituting ideas for emotions.

The synthesis of formula answers.

Seeking meaning to sounds and expressions.

What they say, what they mean, turning about.

Consistently repeats to understand.

Footholds established, ultimately.

Robust, stable, and he can talk the talk.

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Stupid Love Poem

exercise makes you horny

(Photo credit: Will Lion)

Adonis DNA and tiger blood.

Shoulders define the burden, bloody chest.

Immense sensation that will wreck your body.

I thought about it today. I love you.

So I sent you this while I was away.

Help you relieve the tension in your life.

In anticipation of my return.

Some casual fun. Aphrodisiac.

Amor from my soul. You’re more than a crush.

The heat of the moment shows in my eyes.

How do you do? The pleasure is all yours.

Intimacy, like emotions entwined.

Pure pleasure, transcendent euphoria.

Stimulating friction intensifies.

Exciting the spirit of adventure.

Find the link connected like flowing pipes.

Chiseled jaw, broad shoulders narrowing to waist.

In a dim room with sounds that soothe. Taste wine.

Expressing feelings while reading your mind.

See you smile when I’m amiable.

A gentle caress of my tenderness.

The natural next step takes us beyond.

Continuing transition into one.

It just happens, like revolving the sun.

The human bond and affection I feel.

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Innocent, but charged

You took your love away, no charges filed.

Guilty of crimes I haven’t committed.

You refused to put forth allegations.

I would gladly appeal the conviction.

gavel

(Photo credit: SalFalko)

Punished anyways, unanswered questions.

A thief in the night, snuck away from me.

Went to deal with someone less qualified.

You took my heart, sold it under value.

Not only my kingdom, my crown gone, too.

Right under my nose, and I smelled nothing.

Like a memory confused with wishes.

I can’t distinguish what was real or fake.

Dual personalities, which was you?

A schizophrenic roller-coaster ride.

How do I deny the thoughts that come back?

Was it me? Was it you? Who is to blame?

Whether luck or fate, the demons still haunt.

They terrorize my mind, have no mercy.

Sweeping across the landscape of my dreams.

I try to run, try to hide, but they know.

A victim beyond reasonable doubt.

Yet a standard of proof none can provide.

God grants no quarter to the innocents.

Guiltiness charged by my own state of man.

I would embrace death if life could end soon.

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Bones

Human remains in St Eusebius' Church, Arnhem

Their bones break under the weight of burden.

They lie still amid the rubble and ash.

Hundreds of years, waiting for the impact.

An end to distress, cheery destruction.

So weak for so long, and finally snapped.

They used to stand up, riot and revolt.

Until heavy hearts crumpled their spirits.

Supposedly protective, what a lie.

My heart beats fast and my stomach is sick.

They drink too much and their sorrows are real.

The early warning signs, symptoms of loss.

Connected in a circle, holding hands.

Asking kumbaya, but never around.

The hunger threatens, and they remain strong.

Doing what they can is how they survive.

Pretty flowers, the pearls of the ocean.

Hidden deep inside to protect their growth.

Thousands of years they walked, hunting pale fish.

Evolutionary advantages.

They didn’t see the beady eyes’ envy.

Festering in hatred that would soon come.

Puckered lips, wanting to kiss, all for coin.

Chains and shackles placed, revoking freedom.

Sold to their former brothers, exploited.

Abuses allowed, the sanctions of death.