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Pearson Bolt Jul 2016
it's true
the revolution will not be televised
but the fascist revival premiered
on all the major networks' corporate channels
in 1080p HD at prime-time hours

with perfect clarity
viewers could see
an oompa loompa
with an orange toupee
a xenophobe
spewing violence and vitriol
peddling snake oil while spitting venom
stirring a bubbling cauldron
spilling over in fear-mongering demagoguery
served like crack candy to the Republican elite
reveling in their privilege
cheering white supremacy

a tyrant
tirading behind a polished wooden podium
flanked by hues of red white blue and gilded gold
like some comic strip super-villain
but this obtuse excuse for human refuse
is not some Saturday morning cartoon
defeated by the heroes after 30 minutes
of selfless feats and epic deeds
a death dirge plays on repeat in the background

you can't always get what you want

meanwhile
we're holding silent vigils back home
carving the sigil of Orlando's skyline into our skin
while a snake slithers into a City Beautiful
bedecked in her $3k pressed pant-suit
leering wolfishly at a local club for LGBTQ+ youth
the downtown heartbeat
of outcasts and misfits
a Pulse
that bigotry and self-hatred couldn't *****

but tragedies are converted to cheap currencies
in the clawed hands of dynastic oligarchs
sporting the support of billionaires and super-PACs
she knows the Establishment has got her back
she'll shed crocodile tears
just in time for the photo-ops

violence begets violence begets violence
humanity's universal language
a tongue shared by despots and presidents
in the wake of stolen sanctuaries
she'll justify razing Syrian children
beneath a barrage of hellfire missiles
and predator drones targeting cell-phone signals
under the pretense of bringing the terrorists
to some sycophantic mirage of justice

we're manufacturing new soldiers
for the Caliphate to brainwash with promises
of dead gods and seventy-two virgins
machine-fed by automatic weapons
to the toothy jaws
that bottomless maw
of endless ******* war
which always vaunts
profit over people

the conceptual construct of gender binarism
becomes an imperceptible selling point
in the incomprehensible and reprehensible rhetoric
issuing from either side of the political aisle
but what will it matter
either way
an egoistic megalomaniac
has his or her finger poised over the trigger
a neoliberal warmonger and hypocritical fraud
or a reality TV star who lauds the KKK on Twitter

our only hope is found in the streets
unchained by compassion's transformative capacity
freed to utilize our minds
humanity's indomitable faculty
nurturing a community that seizes life
in anthems of liberty equality and solidarity
anarchic manifestoes penned in lines
of red and black ink

progressives will insist otherwise
they'll declare emphatically that our only choice
lies in selecting the lesser of two evils
to lead us to the brink of oblivion
but Orwell wrote the future of humanity
looked like a boot crushing our heads
that either way we'd all be dead
and the harsh reality is that the soot-stained sole
curb-stomping this country
fits both the left and right foot
The world has been on fire recently. I woke last night from dreams of hellish landscapes reflecting on two photographs I saw from the past 24-hours. One depicted Trump on stage at the RNC, looking like some Capitol stooge from "The Hunger Games." The other was of Clinton in my city, pretending to care for the LGBTQ+ youth murdered at Pulse. I wrote this in a frenetic fit of ire and outrage.
Dornish Bastard Jun 2016
Tragedy seems unreal,
Like a foreign movie.
I'm only a spectator
Front row for reality.
I see the shooter, the victims.
A hundred hired to act.
Fake blood paints pavements.
The bullets are blanks.

*But the bullets pierce
And the blood is warm.
A hundred targets are found.
Few to recover from harm.
There won't be a 'cut!'
No take four or take five.
This is no movie.
A shot takes a life.
I don't know what to say.
Angela Bridgman Jun 2016
They fomented hate for years
Now give us crocodile tears
But they care not
For my sisters and brothers
My family just “others.”

Nine and forty souls were lost
My transgender heart tempest-tossed
Their gentle souls
Cut down by a gunman’s hate
They did not deserve their fate

Carry on, we will and must
We will fight for what is just
Sadness today
But one day our hearts will sing
While they soar on angel’s wing
For the 49!!  I love you all.  You were a part of my family.
Bryan Henry Imke Jun 2016
To my beloved family,
mourning alone
without a sanctuary to
gather,
And to
the 49 bodies my
eyes know only as
that:
My body calls you
my own
and feels your absence
achingly.

He crawled into our homes
as children.
He took his position,
aimed, and unloaded
from the disappointed eyes
of our fathers.
He shot his rounds
of shame in the words of
our mothers.
But he did not leave us there.

He found us again
in the pews.
We threw our bodies
face down
under the altar,
eyes closed and bodies heaving.
He held us in his sight
through the prayers of our pastors
that erased you and I.
He called for support
from the holy assembly,
teaching them to gag
again
and again
and again
and again
and called us Abomination.
But he did not leave us there.

He placed the target on
our chests
when we sat quietly in class.
We sat there drawing pictures from
our dreams;
pictures of dancing bears and
rainbows and flowers
and tall queens.
His war cry, “******,”
echoed in the halls as
we counted each step towards the
shelter of home.
But he did not leave us there.

So you and I,
we found each other.
We held each other close and
wiped the tears away with
the gauze we knew to
carry
close at hand.

We built our own
sanctuary
And sent out a search party
to invite our God.
I remember our surprise
when we found that she was
already there,
laughing and dancing as our priests
conducted their holy music.

We invited the tall queens and dancing bears
that we thought only existed in
our minds;
bulldogs in tuxedos and foxes and a
princess. And we all
laughed and cried
and danced and
kissed

Because we were safe.

And our walls and hymns and
sacred prayers
kept him from finding us.
But he did not leave us there.

He found us again.

They call him Omar, son of ISIS.
We call him natural fate,
familiar face,
child and messenger
of every word and deed and stare and sermon
we have ever run from.

In the midst of celebrating our life
you ran,
trampling over those you loved as he
hunted us like dumb animals.

You ran for the exits as our family was
mown down,
member by member.
Each scream systematically and
irreversibly
silenced.

In your final moment you
let out a desperate cry,
fingers still on a keyboard;
your words forever unfinished,
forever unsent
to the mothers who
still loved us.

I heard your cry that night.

I heard it as I left
another sanctuary.
I clasped my heaving chest
trying to hold it together.
I ran my hands along my body,
pushing fingers into bullet holes
that I felt
from miles away.
wren cole Jun 2016
How dare the world keep turning.
Can't it see we're still mourning?
I am still stood still with shock,
Still shaking,
My heart still racing.
Still so soon, 50 other hearts stopped.
If this world keeps turning, revolving as normal
Then I fear that the sun may set and rise and bring us tomorrow.
A new day. How many hearts will stop?
How many hearts will be stopped?
The world keeps turning without a thought
Of the panicked, the broken, the shaking, the shot.
Rebecca Longtin Jun 2016
You are perfect
Smart
Beautiful
Blonde and Blue Eyes
I shuffle over
You look up
Our first second of eye contact
I see the kindness in your eyes
The bass is so loud
The dancing men and women surrounding us
Sadly the first second is the last
I feel a shooting pain rush up my spine
I touch my chest
Red
Now her eyes are filled with fear
The next second, she falls
We lay beside each other
The red gushing out of our chests
All because we were girls
RIP Orlando LGBT community.
I am bi and it stings that people are filled with so much hate that they would do this.
50:53

Strobe
   when  revealing  a  smile  variegated
your polychrome
   soul  within  sight
   does not know where to go but to pine away
from   the single light  to touch
   the innards  of your   button-down
    making intimate the body  contorts  dancing with another
                a minute past  a  gyratory

if   belief  is a  grave:   let   stasis be  metamorphosis.
   this rained-on house will not give way any minute

else  there is the  wreckage  springing from a singular
  hiding behind  the  music ballasting ground
                    and from a convinced consequence of being
   became fracture as if salacious to withdraw nothing but noise

   from the quiet or vice versa. If when  breaths were postponed,  inert – they will
  start    estimates  from  outside
      the   neon sign that  says Pulse and  reimagine the lives when divorced
     from  the daily, and is  then  summarized

  in a  fusillade.   When  on the  ground

    they  must  have been  dreaming   of  wings,  or  falling asleep
               constantly  with   a warm  body   stranger  tomorrow in  that  evening
   a  contingent

                   this   place   they  have   not   reached  yet against  their head
  said  it  was  the   most  sincere of  blankness at  any  given  rate,
               when   movements  statistical,  numbered, unwarranted like a metaphor
     or a glib downpour – the aftermath

                       becomes   sleep so tender with a dream which resonates
   They must  have been   dreaming  of  wings  but  by  the  time  when someone
   waiting  for  them
               inside  homes,   they have  already   flown into    days.
for Orlando.
Shootings, shootings everywhere
Forty-nine face down in the mud
But who will save our rainbow lives
When we can't give rainbow blood?
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