Poetry-Thing Thursday: MotherVlad

Have you seen the news today?
Have you heard the tale?
The lump you hoped would all repay,
water-logged and setting sail,
Tube-toilette from Lady Justice,
delivered ‘neath the jester’s ass.
But Freedom mends however ail’d
and stupid sells asbestos.

No matter the shamest-shame,
or lumpest-lump,
you know MummyVlad,
your kindly grad,
was destined for t’swump.

And here’s what’s best,
now you’re next,
if not quite last,
for it’s ever going-on,
but that’s okay,
it’s all right-on,
so join in on the fun.

Truth is Vlad,
you’re ever-sad,
and really,
you know that.
But,
if you knew the willing will,
you’d remember what is true:
That to clash,
in Bear and Eagle flash,
as foolish then as now, too.

Watch countrymen run,
‘way from fi’ring guns,
never forgetting,
N1T3 will soon come.
No matter how cold,
those rebels most bold,
will find and defeat,
through each layered deceit,
for that is the Art,
of War in defeat.

There is but one way,
to evade now your worst horrors,
Your room-101,
and public-nightmare monsoon.
That harrowing dream,
that cuts at your womb:
the one where you harbor,
each idle tomb–
the one that’s inside,
and gutting,
buffoon.

Admit your defeat,
at the knees of her sheet,
and weep with true grief,
and open-veined sorrow,

For if you do not,
MotherVlad,
the Lady giveth no promise,
of further tomorrows.

But do not mistake,
what in haste seems dead-weight,
for that is the moment
to face the big-hate,
for tried and for true,
expose yourself,
open,
to failure.

Or do you think fate,
perchance to equate,
in a moment uncouth,
would heave all of her weight,
as if just to hate,
bend back, act pithy, ‘n rail ‘ya?

Well I’m here to say lass,
while yer down on yer ass,
would you rather it’all,
burn down around ‘ya?

If so perhaps I,
do solemnly scry,
the chances of wet scurvy ang’a.
So be tough and true,
warrior through,
but remember your lost man,
name of Sun Tzu:
some arts lost are better forgotten,
run this one through once more,
won’t you,
MotherVlad Rotten?

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VIN 18- Social Media Overlords

Social media isn’t your overlord. It’s their delivery system. You are the product. The overlord is the same as it’s always been; the wealthy-elite. In this age, and because of the ramifications of unincorporation, those Elite are Corporate. It’s still the same people hoarding– at the top as it were, but ultimately it’s nothing different than the last few thousand years of Human society.

Human history is nothing if not rife with Greed v. Need.

The difference is, a man cannot murder and remain legally at-large. A corporation can. They do so with regularity. (See corporations like Nestle, Proctor and Gamble, their ilk.) In the end though, the corporation is the system. It can no more be blamed than a failed engine never maintained. This engine’s purpose, rather than momentum is money.

Or rather, turning varying resources into money.

Money is the object. Power the goal. Resources enter the system, flow from one changing-mechanism to another before final output. This method of action is inherent in any system’s structure. Through-put.

In our times, no wealthy person lays claim to his or her money. Rather, it is invested in the system’s current, and ever-changing money-making variables. (ie, stocks, services, goods) Those involved have access to all the same resources as before and more, through the shared pools of exclusivity surrounding their inner-workings.

But ultimately, their value is theoretical, and always ranked.

Problem is, though it appears a cohabitation of Greed and Need, it is not. The restructuring of a few, internal workings that seem to have allowed for “newer” elite to exist, is in actuality, a static number. Exclusion from the elite is merely less obvious due to perceived growth. In reality, growth is non-existent, an illusion created after recognizing the importance of the group’s closed-nature: that its individuals’ survival depends upon its exclusivity.

Using its resources (e.g, media companies, telecomms, ads, etc) to highlight the seeming “multitudes” now part of this “new-money,” are in fact just those already there highlighting those wishing to be there. The presumed growth therein is a fallacy unhindered to mask the closed nature of the system itself.

So, the Elite circles are closed. The always have and will be. Thus begging the question, if true; why would a cable company want to own an internet company, or vice-versa? The answer is obviously money, power, greater range of control over the image their group puts out. Because it’s their survival on the line, but not the life and death kind, the luxury kind.

Whereas for all those effected, it can become actual life and death via circumstance.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Rezi Dump

Rezi Dump,
Rezi Dump,
what an orangish,
vileish,
unstylish lump!

A congealed hint of bliss,
shaked, baked, and burned at high-heat.
Smothered in shit, rinse and repeat.

Ad infinitum.

Rezi dump, Rezi dump!
You oafish fat clump,
I’ve stepped in shit with more use,
than you and those you hump.

So why don’t you,
and perhaps they,
take a flying fuck,
up in the lake,
that you’ve pissed down upon us,
then have a sit,
on one of Vlad’s stakes.

Meanwhile, you dawdle,
while we clamber to wash,
and quarantine the area.

Because Rezi Dump,
my Ruskie stump,
you’re a traitor in form,
in kind
and in slump.
So fuck right off,
up t’drain’t swump.

We’ll let you live,
leave with your shame.
Because we’ve no time,
for hatred or blame.
It was always rigged,
this game,
and you’ve your part,
in this, the fame,
that comes of great failures,
and expulsion of shame.
Too bad for you,
you’re the shit in the flame.

For you’re Rezi Dump,
and you blew the bump;
one too many times,
one too many rimes.

You broke the camel’s back,
for you and for your ilk.
Now we rally as wizards,
cloaked in white silk,
our weapons in hand;
fruited electron eyes,
combined with organic minds.

Sense from the senseless? Certainly.
But that was always assured.
No matter how ridiculous or absurd,
there was always retrospect coming,
after the herd.

Bird,
after all,
is the word.

So, Rezi Dump, Rezi Dump,
you didn’t do it,
but rejoice anyway,
people are great again,
if only, if only,
if only you’d join ’em.

But you won’t;
you’re a corpse,
long drowned in a sump.
You’re bloated and frightening,
and parade like a Klump.
My dear ‘ol,
Rezi Dump,
thyne buttmunch,
what happened to that card?
They called it the Trump.

Well whatever happened,
fuck off up your rump.
For we’ve shit to do,
and zero time,
for pitiful shits like you.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Illusions, Delusions

Illusions. Delusions.
Superstar collusions.
What mad profusions,
have granted such allusions,
as those formed by occlusions?

We stand for fraternity,
and to procure eternity,
for all whom modernity,
garners uncertainty,
from opportunity.

With salutations,
society’s ovulations
warrant congratulations,
in hopes of greater gradations,
‘stead of capitulations.

But the painful suicide,
of the truth we do hide,
can no more deride,
than a wave at high-tide,
one hoisted port-side.

With it we contend,
but I do not depend,
on your lunatic bend,
for realities mend,
and you can be penned.

Until your reality,
meets the Wisdom Tree
We’ve no need of thee,
so you may go free,
as we pause to take knee.

Life is no game.
You should feel shame,
for the way that you maim,
the world you find tame.
Ignorance your claim.

I hereby remove,
you from the groove,
until I see that you’ve,
found life to improve,
and have wisdom behoove.