Impotent Men!
impotent men...
their hands on the reins,
choking on the flesh
of the poor and subjugated.
while birds of prey circle,
bodies strewn on the streets;
another martini, stocks rise and fall!
the pipeline pulses, liquid death,
the eyes of the children
gone to marbles in the dust.
the prophets of profit
tilt their hats and turn away,
leaving the stench of their greed
on unmarked shallow graves.
their god is dead, the world keeps turning,
while the weak and the fallen
kneel in unholy prayer!
impotent men, beating their chests!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Shallow Grave
When I fall in endless sleep
I hope that I'll be buried deep
Let me be the one that fortune favours
Even good children got shallow graves
Throw another clown to the lions
Throw another Joan on the blaze
Cast me away on the cruel calm ocean
and leave me for days and days and days and days and days
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
I won't lie, I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Bless the poor 'cos like the rich
They all end up in a ditch
In this world of fools and knaves
Even good children got shallow graves
The tinker, the tailor, the fabulous five
Nobody gets out of this alive
Chorus
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down, dig me down, dig me down deep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shallow Graves
When I fall in endless sleep
I hope that Ill be buried deep
Let me be the one that fortune favours
Even good children got shallow graves
Throw another clown to the lions
Throw another joan on the blaze
Cast me away on the cruel calm ocean
And leave me for days and days and days and days and days
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
I wont lie, I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Bless the poor cos like the rich
They all end up in a ditch
In this world of fools and knaves
Even good children got shallow graves
The tinker, the tailor, the fabulous five
Nobody gets out of this alive
Chorus
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down, dig me down, dig me down deep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oblivion
thunder and lightning, gunfire,
the stench of death...
we race towards oblivion,
cant feel, cant get our breath!
drum beat and shadows,
lost in the blinding heat.
dead poets and childrens' bodies,
rubble beneath our feet.
smoke fills the air-
trees fall, rivers run dry.
fighting over a loaf of bread,
and the last bowl of rice.
ghoulish gasoline prophets
ring the bell, count the cost...
old people put out on the streets,
now all is over, all is lost.
forgotten faces lost in the roar,
demons dance on unmarked graves.
the bell of freedom rains down fire,
while we hide like fugitives in caves.
and the sound of the wheels,
louder and louder till we're deaf!
we take and burn and use
till nothing good is left
and the face of our hell
is just the face of our desires.
we turn away from those around us,
while our hunger feeds the fire.
thunder and lightning, gunfire,
the stench of death.
we race towards oblivion,
cant feel, cant even get our breath!
smoke fills the air,
trees fall, rivers run dry.
fighting over a loaf of bread,
and the last bowl of rice.
and the sound of the wheels,
louder and louder till we're deaf.
we take and burn and use
till nothing good is left.
we race towards oblivion,
cant feel, cant even get our breath!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Birds of Prey
Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day,
As they go lumbering across the sky,
Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,
Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.
They scare the singing birds of earth away
As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,
Watching the toilers with malignant eye,
From their exclusive haven--birds of prey.
They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,
And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.
They beat us to surrender weak with fright,
And tugging and tearing without let or pause,
They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,
And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.
poem by Claude McKay
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Praying For Emptiness!
walking barefoot down the streets
of the holy city...
listening to the sounds,
the whimper, the cry, and the roar...
praying for emptiness....
the clock beats in rhythm
with the sidewalks and the walls.
the smell of burnt flesh
hangs in the air....
'Jesus Saves' painted on a fence....
oil rigs and chemical sprays,
fields filled with unmarked graves.
windows broken, doors sway, rusted hinges,
cars abandoned, vacant buildings,
dead bodies, eyes lost stare!
the spirits of the children
sing haunting and low...
words pierce like nails,
the birds hear and weep....
a hand gun, a needle, half pack of smokes....
nobody saves the night from the dawn!
praying for emptiness...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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America.... Revolution, Or The Fall!
America, America,
your pale skinned death testifies!
the cross of your democracy laid down,
the blood on your hands names your guilt.
your bodies laid in soldiers' graves,
strewn across your planted fields.
while wild fires rage,
and your tenements boil,
as your children march to death.
the poverty of indifference,
strikes the bell that cannot ring.
while the wealthy drink the blood
of your disembodied men.
and your hallowed god turns his face,
disgusted by what he's seen.
blood sacrifices on your borders,
blood sacrifices in your mills.
your families driven from their homes,
while your prisons turn the wheel.
and the hungry walk your streets
wearing familiar shoes.
the haunting cry of liberty,
rattles against your walls.
while justice is bought and sold
in your sacred halls!
and the colors of eguality,
bleed into your angry streets.
your schools struck numb
by propaganda's thumb,
your daughters sold like meat.
America, America,
revolution, or the fall!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Killing Of The Children!
the killing of the children continues,
their cries muffled by 'holy' hands.
you speak of bringing God back,
as if He were in retirement.
in the name of liberty you march,
the price of oil screams and soars.
build more prisons, dig more graves,
call on morality and justice.
still, the bodies of the children
testify on your back streets.
you spray the winds with chemical death!
and turning the pages of
your bloodstained Bible,
you call on the God whose
name you invented...
and He turns away in horror!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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By Unmarked Graves....
i read the labels of soup cans,
the poetry of mechanized food.
while children starve in the back seats,
of cars up on blocks.
and cell phones pray with neon glow,
to the souls of the fathers
buried in unemployment lines.
heartless bastards wave numbing flags,
guarding the border, masks and rifles cocked.
bars on the windows of pregnant schools,
where freedom unravels with sterile yawns.
the fields are quiet, bodies decompose...
crows pick fruit from trees long dead.
microwave Jesus's fill plastic bowls
with fingers severed from forgotten hands.
live or die, most choose death!
young lovers taunt roaches on motel walls.
the wheels of justice groan in the heat,
and darkness erect, prophesies.
the labels of soup cans,
and the brim of old hats!
leaving only tongues left naked
by unmarked graves!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Destiny's Breath!
the face of my god is dark,
her eyes coal more precious than diamonds.
she whispers to fallen petals,
and mountains and rivers speak forth.
her lips call crows and name them eagles,
her hands are filled with bowls.
she names the darkness morning,
and from the light she weaves the night.
she bathes the human spirit,
in the sweat of tribulation.
she nurses the unwanted child,
and places flowers on unmarked graves.
she gives lost lovers candles,
builds bridges for weary pilgrims.
she forges doubt into the journey,
and plants dignity in fields gone fallow.
she walks with poets in intimate silence,
from grieving she harvests prayer.
from prayer she forms bodies,
filled with destiny's breath!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Deathliest
Death has an answer for those who are weak,
Their stubborn nature only is given birth.
Then we stride in the graves to return to our mother,
To renew the living existence,
But instead it is heaven.
Deathly thoughts occupy my heart when
My heavenly standards show.
In the end the prayer of my being
Subjugated the devils who bring their being.
The sight of God was only to forgive me
Where I saw Him, when I heard Him,
As if the kings were minute and He was the Most.
Death has anger in its bottle of wine,
To drink is to have the heaven when death is near.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Dead In The Wombs
those same children
who died in the waters
that swallowed Atlantis....
those same children,
starving 'neath Africa's sun....
dead from the bombings
in Iraq, Afghanistan, and soon Iran....
their bodies thrown into dumpsters
here in the United States....
dead on the borders,
dead in the oil filled waters,
dead on the cocaine streets,
dead in the prisons...
dead in the colleges,
dead in the unemployment lines....
dead on the picket lines,
dead, handcuffed, and beaten....
dying, and dead, world crazy spinning...
as the 'light of the world'
sputters, and goes out....
dead in the wombs of the
homeless, hopeless, and forgotten...
dead by our hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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American Slaves
blatent mediocrity, constant uniformity,
tongues pierced with an anvil.
eyes fogged from realization,
minds trained for situations,
paper hearts, electric candles.
cry of desperation, self becomes a nation,
stepping over bodies without heads.
the newscaster plots his story,
selling condoms in purgatory,
fanning the flames o'er the dead.
ghosts in hell, souls without conscience.
take another pill for deliverence.
children buried in unmarked graves.
oil rigs pumping, American slaves.
flag waving, constant craving,
neon lights blink on and off.
sex heals, addictive thrills,
money dressed in naked bills,
drool on the chin, barking cough.
color fears, political cures,
families lost to the raging sea.
morals traded, hard and jaded,
the sick are shunned, the poor are hated,
only the few can afford to be free.
ghosts in hell, souls without conscience.
take another pill for deliverence.
children buried in unmarked graves.
oil rigs pumping, American slaves.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fairy Dust
Here
See the little queer
There's a volunteer
Dont you think he should get a haircut now
Like in the Marines
All the magazines
Got a way for everyone to shape up
You don't wanna fall behind
Choking on a cloud of fairy dust - fairy dust
Now it's only greed and lust
And pride and lust
And a few other sins
No
See the cherry lips
Hands on the hips
Anyone would your name was Oscar Wilde
Think you're pretty smart
Poetry and art
Put him testosterone and vodka
calling for the man of steel
to blow you faggots into fairy dust - fairy dust
now it's only greed and lust
and pride and lust
and a few other sins
we're
happy to be gay
showing you the way
gotta get your head your hear you toso hard
join another gym
loose your pseudonym
soon we'll all be strait but only more so
tell me who's you're gonna find
to spinkle on a little fairy dust - fairy dust
now it's only greed and lust
and pride and lust
and a few other sins
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man reaches the tragic end.
Half of women are born as impotent.
The other half is taught to be impotent.
Men swim for water in the sea.
Which man had ended his life on happy notes?
17.06.2002, pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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October Sundown
October sundown
spillt o'er rainswept
mountains undressed,
lit by the Painter's brush;
momentarily...
sucks the oxygen
from the air,
leaving me gasping
for words....
........2........
the hands on the great clock
bent under the weight,
waves pounding hard against
the breakers.
the fire flickers, almost dies,
bursts into flame.
the ghost of longing
walks out of the grave!
........3........
the earth tremors,
tall buildings fall!
the wail of the dying
fills the air...
the stench of blood and
burning flesh chokes the mind...
dark wings thunder
on the distant horizon.
the bells of emptiness
ring like razors....
still beating hearts
held in children's hands!
........4........
October sundown....
....and the night
.............is coming!
leaving me....
...gasping for words!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Freedom Rant, Part Two... (For Greg And Terence)
socialism, existentialism,
the pages are revealed.
patriot lies, god dies,
unmarked graves in a field.
the addict weeps, cold hard streets,
poverty has a heavy hand.
discrimination, salvation,
leaving footprints where we stand.
single mothers, live for another,
food stamps and minimum wage.
desperate young men, without a friend,
commit acts of senseless rage.
the prisons turn, the money earned,
fills the bellies of greed.
children taught to kill, against their will,
to survive, to feed the need.
those who slept with goats, and came in boats,
to steal the land of the free.
buried the bones, beneath time and stone,
became written history.
now the sins of the past, come due at last,
the slaves rise against the lie.
feet cross the line, eyes read the signs,
for it's liberty or die!
the farms foreclosed, bankers pick their noses,
the factories shut down...
streets filled with ghosts, businesses closed,
nothing left but the sound.
of family trees, brought to their knees,
and babies born in empty rooms.
where roaches crawl, blood spattered walls,
black eyes, needles and spoons.
while Bibles scream, in human dreams,
of the gospel of flesh and bone.
suicides, mass genocides,
stones stacked upon stones.
hungry faces, leave human traces,
on words spoken without a voice.
beneath the gun, dare we stand or run,
we stand before our choice.
Fox News, for those who refuse,
to feel anything at all.
whose bloodless hands, sign time's demands,
on the dawning of the fall.
the guns of war, as ignorance roars,
but who falls victim to this day?
backs turned too long, hearts turned to stone,
is it too late to pray?
nay, i say! another way!
one chance to make a difference...
for it is this act, taking dignity back,
that is the cost of our forgiveness!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Featureless And White
This night of the long vigil
has betrayed my soul.
Columns of smoke arise
from the landscape of shrines.
There is no need now,
to sing the praise of oblique wars.
Truth has made
a big dent in my heart.
The tears of the bronze statue won’t stop,
they are mixed with blood.
Its pain for pain hurts the flesh.
Orphaned kids move in a circle,
their parched lips in silent prayer.
Remains of bread crumbs strewn on road.
The stench rises from the trash.
A face swims,
of our demolished culture.
Even the vultures are gone.
The dead and living start talking.
Tainted blood flows in dead veins.
Featureless & white.
poem by Satish Verma
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We Have Been Men (For Juan, And For Me!)
we learn...
somewhere in chapters
written in dust, ...
with temples turned grey,
and tired sunset eyes.
leaving tiny fragments of heart,
spread in the darkness...
to become fireflies for the poor.
with bent backs testifying,
and well worn boots.
love turned to echoes,
drawing blood from the veins.
simple hands working silently,
weaving on the master loom.
leaving only the scent of our passing,
for strangers to comb.
having lived and given,
and nothing more asked.
we turn with gratitude to the door,
and tip our hats to the night!
we have been men,
and now we are more!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sonnet 03
Lord, what a change within us one short hour
Spent in Thy presence will prevail to make --
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take,
What parchèd grounds refresh, as with a shower!
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower;
We rise, and all, the distant and the near,
Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear;
We kneel how weak, we rise how full of power!
Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,
Or others -- that we are not always strong;
That we are ever overborne with care;
That we should ever weak or heartless be,
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer,
And joy, and strength, and courage, are with Thee?
poem by Richard Chenevix Trench
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Dead Soldiers, And Bones!
dead soldiers...
beating on tin drums
with bones,
that used to wear faces!
small children singing,
songs of coming and going,
leaving the eerie taste
of things forgotten.
the field fresh plowed,
drowned by morning rain,
waits for the bodies
that seed the future.
while priests chant
neath stained glass windows.
the sun weary with bringing,
finds its way on the path.
the fresh dug graves
mourn with the ache,
longing for the thrust
of love's denial.
and dead soldiers march
across fog driven plains,
beating on tin drums
with bones,
that used to wear faces!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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