Misery is Real

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is one of several poems I've written concerning the cultural zeitgeist right now, and the Occupy movement.

Submitted: January 10, 2012

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Submitted: January 10, 2012



Misery is Real


Misery is real

And primal

We’ve been wrenched by guilders of broken dreams

Gazing in isolation

Seeding poison Wall Street whispers

Preaching smug on television

Grinning lies in alpha waves


Did you know God is television?



Blood royalty spin stringing jeweled intestines

Of the poor like pearls from twisted fingers

They’ve spent centuries in towers wrought to gather psychic energy

Like gold and bottled human souls

In iron clenches then

Dealt forth in bursts of hatred

Listless homeless cringing deathless in the hazy wastes


Death is illusion born unknown…


Sad promises were whispered by the


Millions marching raving chanting

Drunken love songs of the proletariat


My brothers sprawled out deathless huddled retching in the

Afterglow of vacant birth…


Poor sad souled desperate revolution

Ragged rambling in Zuccotti asking:

Can we forget the past?

Can we attune with present chaos?


Purveyors of the wars

Sellers of death and clutching wealth

Are they human?

They care not for the earth it seems

Scheming blasphemy pious ignominy

Ebulliant Annunaki keen on rule and ritual

servants of the lantern bearer curling slitted eyes and cackling


But their laughter is unheard by

Newborn warriors uninfected by the money fever

Sweating joyous in the neon night…

bleeding drops of hope fed up with

Secret wars

Dealt in innocents gambling youth …

Perceived as saviors by the creatures gone insane

bastard human slaves

Conned out of knowledge of the self

Implanted by their lords delighting in the blood lust

Sucking clean the wounds of cracking earth

bled out and feasted on

Upon the dawn of rapture…


And those few who grasp the truth scream

to the void

My God!

Then who are we?

Did we forget ourselves

Across a frozen field of memory

And years faded like sepia?

Are phantoms masquerading flesh too late

Do we fight to save?

Did we incarnate blind and deaf into a home we call Hell

Bequeathed with illusions of some stillborn paradise?

should we crawl at last beyond the gates of consciousness

To dive headlong into the realm of unknown truth?


The time has come for reckoning

And violent moonlight riots led by

Kindred gods of fertile action

Meanwhile eyes are oozing spoiling dreams that never had a chance to manifest…

The day they do will signal death within the serpent’s reign

And our empire of gold will surely rust away

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