Tags: Bourgeois, Bourgeoisie, Communism, Marxism, proleterian, Proleteriat, Socialism, tunnels
Archive | September, 2013
The Button
30 SepJohn frantically searched for his button. It had fallen out of his pocket when he had pulled his pack of cigarettes from his left pocket. It fell to the ground and rolled across the floor, he had lost sight of it as it navigated through the legs of the people getting off the J train. He did not know exactly where it had wandered off to but it was rather in a deep crevice a few feet in front of him or it had rolled off of the subway platform.
He was now rushing through the crowd to investigate the crevice, all of the caulk weathered away and left a narrow six inch slash in the cement floor. Panicking, he pulled out his phone to use as a flashlight, getting flashbacks of his dad heading for the garage door of their house leaving the Davises as a family of two. Two sounds haunted John throughout his life: the sound of his dad’s car peeling out of the driveway and the sound of that white ivory button peeling off his father’s cardigan as he shoved 12 year old John off of him on his way to the door. But now the button was lost.
After inspecting the crevice for several moments John concluded the button was not there and must have fallen off of the platform. Does he dare jump down the platform to retrieve his last memento of his apathetic father? Here he is, a 52 year old 6 foot 1 high school principal about to risk his life for a button. He stood there trying to imagine himself calmly waiting for the C train to arrive and going home, leaving the button on the dirty subway tracks forever. His shoulders relaxed and he smiled a bit at the thought. Suddenly, he noticed the subway tracks beginning to tremble. As if it was instinct, he dropped down the platform, picked up the white ivory button off of the tracks, and jumped up to the platform just as the train started braking.
John’s shoulders were tense and his smile had disappeared as he boarded the train.
Stay
29 SepThe story is
The million dollar profits
and ravaged and razed souls in the cemetery
are part of different stories.
Much like a cart and an ox
Used up and left for dead
but they the only option
The pathways to heaven are large
but they’re narrowed by the funnels
and called tunnel, opportunities.
I command respect from the masses
half playing half serious like Cassius
For every dollar made
A punch to the heart exclaimed.
Criticisms of modern history
Lay blowing in the wind
Its much too long a story
More than a several handlers
Led to where it lies now
But you just see it with the wind
Like that is the only option
Like thats the way it should be
Has to be
I recline to chill
retrospection on introspection
leaves me cheesing
smiles that were previously stolen from me
As I inhale
A breath is stolen
A brain wrinkles
As a heart sinks
Pass the rifle
BLAH BLAH bourgeois
It’s time to roll out
out of bed
hearing stories of the dead
opportunities are wasted
Its because of the hatred
The underlying gimmick is the huge roll of linen
enormous in size
the only thing in sight
all cut from the same cloth.
Lies of amber grain
Pies of propaganda
For every ball hit off that bat
Another fallen soldier
Street Disciple
Philosophical gangster
Too many thoughts
they deviate from reality
So he’s lost until the world finds him
Until each track is laid until the end of days
Centers of vanity and distraction
Filler
Fluff
Than the meat comes in
Emptied out and candy coated.
