Losing a Finger on Their Label

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I want them all to think I’m some radical insane

Feeding on the deteriorating morality

Of their McCarthyism

I want to be the one cockroach

That picks up the foot and tosses

The capitalist aside

I want to be the procommunist

                                Procapitalist

That everyone can find a piece to hate

Labels are like diseases

Slowly you watch pieces

You once cherished fall and

Rot from the bone

As one conforms and

Three murders two,

Only four three to find

He’s been played

By the all powerful five

Behind the Camera

Long live the king
The liberal loved
Guilt endorsed
King
Long live the assimilated
integrated
Lost man
That stands for the very thing
That raped his ancestors for generations
The very thing that tells him
He isn’t enough
Long Live the King
That lives as the example
Of the white devils worst tyranny
That red lined ghettoed
Long Live the King
That to the rest of us will still be a negro
That will further progress
The progressive illusion
Of integration
And equality
Equally as far from the working class
Pushed beneath the skin
Only those diagnosed
Are the ones that feel that pain.

The 99

Snicker at this “free country
Stretching suffering
Across shanties
Cannibals
In dilapidated kingdom

But It’s
Corporate heads
cremating the flesh
Peppering grains
In nine course meals
Of the future

From seeds planted
By hard as hooves
Leather hands

The same hands
that are steady all through
the nation’s adolescent
temper tantrum

boys aren’t fans of toys
they’d rather play with knives
The children must be appeased

They will make vogue gloves
Out of his palm
Earrings out of sagging genitals
Of mutilated martyrs
The messiahs mashed into wine
Like grapes under calloused heel

Love Seat

Junkie California coastals
Fuck on the tattered up
Couch on my porch

They don’t mind the light
From my burning cigarette
Or a hand down dirty denim

While they go at it
And at it
They cry out
To an impartial
Crescent moon

Sometimes I join in
They say that’s how I became
venereal vermin

But it was me
That did it to them

I’ve collected every disease
From the five corners of the world

I wait on a throne
Of the dead proletariat
the exclusive club
of people whose
genitals share the same rot