politics

Politics of Politics

I don’t understand the politics of the politicians,


They say one thing and do another causing suspicions,


The politics of politics is what they better,


For their own security, for their own turnover.


 

Like the jokers most of the politicians wear,


Masks but they are not as honest as the jokers are,


Like the covetous colonialists they are ever busy,


In running after money.


 

As long as they are in power,

 

They feel like owning the country forever!

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The cold depths of secrecy

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Tyrant

Col. Anderson. "So this is the god you worship...this is the reason for all the suffering and death...over something that should never have been."

Dr. Kay. "This was our salvation, Col. Anderson...this is what saved us...and will save us again."

Col. Anderson(Gripping the .45 tight in his hand). "I see nothing but jars of cold, dead remains, computer wires, and dusty old monitor screens...there is no god here, just butchered remnants of something you made but could never control, nor understand."

Dr. Kay. "With all due respect, Colonel...you speak in ignorance...upon awakening, his knowledge will be our understanding. When the resurrection comes, all will be revealed...we are one and the same...soul and mind. After all, we created him in our image."

Col. Anderson. "Does your image not frighten you, Dr.?"

Dr. Kay. "No, Colonel."

Col. Anderson. "It will."

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Bastard children of the imprisoned son

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Tyrant

Throughout the city, cults began to rise, calling themselves deciples of the persicuted child, and the sons and daughters of the new age, among many other names. Police units, being underfunded, and undermanned, could do little to stop them. The followers of the so called, new religion, predicted the day of Tyrant, and a new world to come, often blocking the already cluttered streets, chanting, dancing, and going to many drug induced states. Units could only disperse them, but they'd soon find other places to hold their meetings, and arests were few and far between, as often, police found themselves overpowered by the large crowds who would fight and die in the name of their new god.

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Free from the bonds of the digital realm

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Tyrant

Many worried about the day when Tyrant would break from the chains that held it. They begged the men at the top to pull the plug, to cancel the program, but pride and politics would see that these warnings would go unheeded.

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Power in decline

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Tyrant

In time, those in power would come to fear the very monster they created, the salvation they gave birth to when at the edge of their demise. They called it Tyrant.

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Prophetic Profits Line Political Pockets

Is it ironic that our prophets are marketed to profit the preacher's pocket?

 

It seems prophetic scripture is a profitable mixture of spirituality and social interaction; last time I stepped in a church, I envisioned cats goose steppin, their hands raised to acknowledge the Spirit but I'm wonderin if Der Führer is present.  Speaking of prophecy, these profits we chase will be the end of humanity - death creates a war economy where PMCs are commodities bought and sold to perpetuate global homogeny.  

 

New World Orders dictate a rise of profit, so our prophets are shifted to suit the pockets of those in suits and suites; our politicians accept legal bribery to sell us up river, our population swells and our problems become bigger.  We give in to fear and accept propaganda while we demand actions from those with hidden agendas.  Overseers out of officers above our written laws roam these streets looking more ravenous than their dogs.  As the blue line stretches from state to state, the state of the union dissolves; to state it simply, the Police State seems reminiscent of the Third Reich.  

 

RFIDs implanted as governments demand their chattel be branded; the mark of a beast we fed with our blood, best mark your numbered days of "freedom" as you chatter about your favorite programming.  Can it be coincidence entertainment on television is called programming?  Manufactured characters from sitcoms to newsrooms, distorted opinions layered like a cake with as much sugar coating, ensuring you will swallow the harsh medicine of reality crumbling.  

 

But never mind that, what color is this dress man?  And never mind THAT, douse yourself with this bucket of ice man.  From one scam to another, our attention is commanded - ironic that the only real deficit is attention.  If our attention had intention to shift our intended goals from profit to parables utter by prophets, imagine what our pockets would hold then.

 

Every day, if I open my eyes, I realize another layer of the real lies -- how we're compliant to the point of reliance on a system that simplifies human lives to assembly lines.  A culture that preys like vultures on the disenfranchised, selling lies to shallow minds encapsulated by fear; never did they mind the depth of the graves dug here.  For the truth it seems has been categorically smeared with distractions, millions booking face time to clear collective ADHD like ten second Tom.

 

One week, two weeks, three weeks, gone.  Attention deficit, human destruction imminent, and the cycle resets because we were too lazy kid.

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

One of my pieces with a heavier amount of rhyme and rhythm.

Mother Culture's Lullaby

Streets are ablaze in Baltimore;

apathetic windbags distracted by their

intelligent devices fan flames

hungering for justice, and

pour judgmental gasoline on the white-hot embers.  

The resulting inferno of rage engulfs the local,

corporate pharmacy!  LISTEN --

the voices on the wind are not

just those of the trees!  

Your brothers and sisters are crying,

"Please help me!"  Citizens march

with peace as their only shield,

ghosts of haunting perspective their only weapons,

from streets stricken by the plague of poverty

to avenues lined with perverse privilege.  

This is the first time in centuries our nation

has witnessed red and blue unite for justice,

yet Faux News sources spew rhetoric

of violent intentions -- meanwhile,

dem Republicans siphon greenbacks during free lunches,

in exchange for ignoring institutionalized violence,

and Democrats are reppin' a different colored set

of ethics that amount to the same ignorance.  


The hum of Mother's lullaby pacifies your mind...

Keep up the routine.

 

Streets are on fire in Ferguson.  

But your Rorschach face contorts to disgust,

and you don't even whisper, "No."  

Streets sizzle with the flesh of the dead,

and you let your silence speak volumes,

decibels tightly coiling around you

like a comforting straight-jacket.  

When the damage is done,

and your molten ignorance dries ashen husks left behind,

you will abandon cold 'logic'

as the boot comes for your throat.  

Your own pleas for mercy will bubble

up to the surface of your corrupted lips,

your esophagus clogged with 'trivial'

cries of innocence, choking life from you.  


The buzz of Mother's lullaby muffles

your voice...

Past silence is future compliance.

 

Streets are burning in Ohio,

and so are your judgments.  

Seared across timelines that pinned

white, blue, black, gold dresses and

gracious compassion for ALS,

you are ironically out of character

or finally revealing, depending on

the light.  

This isn't righteous comeuppance brother;

you will not receive silence in response to

your call because what goes around comes around.  

No, you will be deafened by the echoes of past cries,

because that will be all that surrounds you -- past

lives already pushed aside, killed,

or in cages waiting for your warmth.  

There will be no free men to save you.  

Because you use your freedom to cage you.  


The melody of Mother's lullaby articulates

the bars you have yet to define...

Think inside the box.

 

Remember these truths

as Mother whispers own swan song -- death

is on the tips of her forked tongue;

she tastes the air for signs

of compassionate warmth.  Danger

is at the tip of her middle finger,

moving riot gear soldiers to quell

the rising chorus of revolution.  

Her reflective eyes gaze upon her nation

of drones, conducting a symphony of destruction

disguised as progress; she would smile,

if she had lips.  Her hair sweeps

over destitute streets, replacing bankrupt souls and homes

with bank-rolls of those whom march to the beat

of her syncopated heart.  

The ringed iris of her third eye echoes

into the air, transmitting pulsating waves of

calcifying indifference into antennas intended

for cosmic collection.  

Her aluminum dress adds a layer to

the atmosphere, a literal ceiling preventing ascension.  

She claims no nationality; her features lack

definition, save for the burning desire

of our own destruction.

 

Our streets are on fire,

ablaze with passion and empathy --

will you fan the flames,

or pour gasoline?


CLF 2015

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For the #BlackLivesMatter movement; we're all human.  Let's act like it.

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I don’t Hate Politics

 I don’t hate politics,


 But I do detest the politician,

 

In whose veins greed does like a train run,

 

Who money ever seeks.


 

I think of the countrymen,

 

I think of the boy, poor,


 I think of his mother's fingers, sore,

 

I think of the country again.

 

 

I beseech! Lead the country towards prosperity,

 

I beseech! Lead the country towards prosperity.

 

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Cant vote wont vote

Cant vote wont vote

I wont be voting Mr politician
Because I've got no fixed abode
Once a proud British soldier
Now I walk a lonely road
I swapped the medals on my chest
For a blanket and some food
I no longer guard the Queen
She will not think I'm rude
I don’t have a TV set
Politicians I despise
My own film is in my head
I can still hear those men’s cries
Of comrades long gone now
They will be with me to the end
We once made a vow
This Country we would defend
Some say that not to vote
Would be an awful shame
Be we veterans no the truth
Your all the bloody same.

 

© Tony McNally
Author's Notes/Comments: 

There is a general election next week in the UK, this is why I wrote this poem.

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