Tuesday, April 16, 2019

The Curious Case of the Missing Poetry

What thievery has dismayed, the reader of Romantic flare
bamboozled by a titled One,
that pockets the ink with the skill of a burglar,
concealing the most precious of works

Incoherent and confused; schizophrenic lyrics,
derailed and bemused by verse,
that rubs the mind in terse manner all
Oh. It is a curious case indeed

Peculiar in rhythm and rhyme,
my eyes have been deceived by mimes;
troubled by a flat taste, like soda that’s lost its fizz
trademarked by one and the same

Nothing sublime, no cosmos that swirls above,
nor a sea that drowns the soul in passion;
It’s a bewildering case, undeniably so,
one that’s left its mark upon the art

Not even Sherlock Holmes could find any great poetry among the plethora of publications that only publish "educated" verse. Please, bring back the Romantics. Modern poetry SUCKS!

Monday, March 11, 2019

I Give Up

I give up on the rankness of existence
the mind believes it sees into all things
only to realize, it's bloated with ignorance
A populace, that slaves and works to pay
the factory owner. What an honorable knave!

I give up on the lie of life,
that holds in high esteem the poet past,
yet today's poetry stinks, like sewage gas
What a contradiction, thinking one can write,
only to see that no one cares to read the hype

I give up (not a nihilistic motto)
but when love ends, take me to the grotto,
where I can write about my lonely cave,
far away from the populace, grey
With their degrees, they surely die
before death has come to draw them nigh

I give up on the folly of souls,
not in good humour, you see,
for nowadays, they've perverted that tree
no more roots growing deep in innocence,
but a masochism for abuse and penance

I give up on the eaters and creators of chaos
with their fork and knife they slice the quiet body
and teach their children to do the same
Unknowingly, unflinchingly, it does not matter,
they only wish to stuff their face from the platter
Blood, tendons, ligaments, fat- the grease smears
their tongue in a made dash for tastebud glory

I will become the anti-carnist,
the peaceful judge and jury of the thoughtless;
the forbearer to a dying generation of the childfree
The teacher of truth and virtue, striving on-
for these are the only things I'll pursue to the last the dawn

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

Feel Everything

Stifled, gagged
bound by pills to close
the heart- 'don't feel everything'
Mask the symptoms, dull the senses
but the feelers are the anchor
Society falters; dreamers wear 
the halter top of love and values

It's not a temper tantrum 
but a pervasive longing for authenticity
Integrity, mixed with a smidge of reason
but not to the point of coldness
A fire rages, underneath the torso
A blaze burns in the soul,
ignited by a passion for the otherworldly

No ties to the concrete,
but not suicidal- incomplete,
without the freedom of expression
Don't let them tell you to stifle that cry;
'to feel is to exist' said Rousseau,
it was the same for Wollstonecraft too,
they just couldn't relate- Blake felt her heat

You are the tether to sanity,
while we wait for the Angel of Death;
existing to 'feel everything' and balance
the seesaw of society between robotic
and spontaneous; if we lose, it would be heinous

though nonetheless, our world is not here,
we're just passing through


Sunday, February 3, 2019

The Disease

Boredom looms-
waiting to pounce on unsuspecting minds
that are constantly searching for something
to occupy their time
Anxiety-inducing pleasures, needs, demands;
they ignite the spark, that feed the flames
of a populace that shifts from one procurement
to another:
Sex, food, movies, creative pursuits;
physical activities, marriage, children
all seen as a purpose to life- but what is purpose?
To fill one's time, until death,
fooling yourself that it all meant something

Sunday, January 27, 2019

Tender Mercies

How shall I say this, to you whom have never spent time with me, in such a way that you can know me as I truly am? I hope this can be a lesson in the tender mercies of the value of friendship among all species. No, not all of us can sit or lie with one another in all matters. Some of us, like the lion, has not fully decided to lie with the lamb but I am appealing to you, the human, who supposes he and she are higher than myself. Perhaps, you've evolved enough to consider me more than food? I will try to elucidate my thoughts enough, so as to have you think upon this statement.

I was born from a sow, female pig, that breast fed me from inside a grate. Nothing more than a slavery pen where she bit at the bars, trying to get out. It drove her mad in the end of her life. I knew nothing of the heavy hand of the slave master back then, but that would soon change. He jerked me from the nipple one day, in a harsh manner; squeezed me between his thick thighs. The stink of his body made me gag. I squealed in horror as he ripped my teeth from my mouth, one by one. Next my tail, then testicles. I bled, I cried, I wanted to die. Little did I know, that wish would come one day but as you can see, I am still alive. Let me tell you my story...

I once remember seeing a cow, heifer to be exact, give birth on the main pasture. She attempted to wash her calf and nurse, when he was wheeled away in a barrel. She mewed and ran after him, as the lady farmhand chucked him on the back of a pull behind, attached to a pick up truck. The woman seemed robotic about her job. I couldn't believe she lacked the empathy to connect with another female species that was desperate to obtain her child; to nuzzle him next to her large, warm body. The lady, just drove away, mother cow in tow. Running down the dirt path, crying for her child, this heifer, finally collapsed in fatigue and grief. I couldn't see her face, but I bet tears streamed. You humans say we don't cry, but we do. You think we don't feel, but you're lying to yourselves. The farmhands, they hear us scream; see us bite at the stalls and grates. They see the chickens with their steroid bodies, legs broken and collapsed under the weight of unnaturalness, but they just shut their minds to us. The plantation master, as we've adopted the term from civil war, slavery era, is the worst man on the face of the earth. I've heard it said he's a psychopath, with a blood lust from Satan himself. I've seen him stomp on calves heads, as well as my fellow pigs. He once beat one of my cousins with a metal bar, just because he was already dying. He did it, because he could. No one was there to hear our cries. The factory farms are far away from the cities and suburbs. The sadist, can get away with anything there. Despite the fact that many have seen the footage, heard the cries of vegans for peace, they still crave the taste of our flesh. In the end, cancer will get em'... most anyway. Nature will take care of the rest. Not too soon if you ask me.

So, my day came. I saw the pigs ahead of me, being taken in by truck to the slaughterhouse. We'd been riding for days without food and water. Most of us had died of thirst or vomited for fear at the sight of the death house (that's what we nicknamed the slaughterhouse). I am ashamed to say I pissed myself when we got close enough and I saw evil men prodding a poor dairy cow through the slaughterhouse doors. She was so terrified, because she'd never been in a death house before. I guess death would be a welcome release for her, since she'd spent her life being raped for milk and her babies stolen one after another, but not like this. I heard this was just like slavery of the Africans in America. We are branded too; sold at auction, and raped, tortured, and abused just as they were. The slave plantation still exists but most humans refuse to believe it. I then saw the little male baby chicks being sorted for the flesh grinder. Their death would be quick, hopefully.

We were the next cargo, being unloaded for the torture or kill. We never knew if the person on the kill line would like their job or not. Ahead of me, I saw my friend being sliced. The fear, the panic. I just couldn't sit there and await this fate. A natural death is one thing, but this... this is just murder! Torture! Abuse! Slavery! I'd heard of a cow that bolted from an auction and was found by a local animal rescue. Surely, I could do the same. I had to make my move before I was wrangled into the kill zone. I found my opening and I took it. I bolted, knocking the farm hand off his feet. I headed for the gate. It was slightly pushed ajar, so I rammed through! I used my massive pig body to free myself from this plantation of horror. I ran and ran and ran, until I couldn't go anymore. I hid. I cried. I ate. I felt the grass under my hooves for the first time. I felt the sun on my snout as if it was approving of my actions. Never before had I felt the sun, until being loaded onto the transport trucks but this time, it was in love, not horror.

I found my way to a local animal sanctuary where I am now and I've never looked back. I realized there are decent people trying to fight for us. We cannot wield weapons, so we need you humans to do it for us. Raise your voice, your pen, your conscience and say, I will not stand for this! Pledge to go vegan, stop the torture. Help us. Please. May the abolitionists rise again!!






Thursday, January 24, 2019

Peek a Boo, We See You

Between the lies and alibis-
protecting your boyfriend, to no end,
left us hurt and disillusioned inside

Cash in one hand, deceit in the other,
leaving a trail of broken pieces to garner
more questions than answers

It was all a hoax,
with your colorful advertising,
and slick used, car salesman approach

A smirk, alternating with a razor sharp grin,
combined with a dash of 'poor little ol' me' attitude,
thought you'd keep everyone from knowing they were duped

But in the end, you will find,
it wasn't worth troubling your mind;
as the debt of guilt weighs heavily with time

As for us? We move on, to greener pastures;
peace of mind; freedom from your demands
and a species, of a gentler kind




Thursday, January 17, 2019

I Wish

I wish I could be the one who doesn't care
Never attempting to enlighten or educate,
nor be the one, to reciprocate
If only I could turn a blind eye,
maybe my heart wouldn't ache, nor tears I'd cry


I wish I could simply write of clouds and roses;
light-hearted stanzas, of rainbows only
If only I didn't see the hurt in lonely faces,
perhaps I could pass them by, with no traces
It would make my life much easier, I suppose,
to never empathize with animal's woes


Yet, I sense their pain and agony-
lonely animals, enslaved at the factory
Why must I sense, the evils of this world?
Powerless, to free them, once and for all, from evil hordes
I cannot turn a blind eye, so I suppose
I will go on sensing hurt, with all its woes


A cruel life, you dealt me fate,
knowing I could only write,
never being able to free a one from strife
I've tried in vain, for twenty years;
tried to relieve the mother's tears
Rescued animals, only to find,
more would be abandoned; Oh, how I hate the unkind!


I now realize I can only free myself,
and bring a gentle hand to those placed on the shelf
This is what I must focus on, now and forevermore;
to bring peace and love, to animals, freed from the abattoir



"Here's to the hope that one day, ALL slaughterhouses will be closed once and for all and that all animal suffering will end in all its forms." 


The Curious Case of the Missing Poetry

What thievery has dismayed, the reader of Romantic flare bamboozled by a titled One, that pockets the ink with the skill of a burglar, co...