Occupy This Poem!

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Occupy This Poem! is part of the Occupy This Series!.

The Alley Is His Home Occupy This Poem!
by Maelstrom Wordsley III
Under bridges he shouts wise words
At scurrying possums who lack aesthetics
His skin is pocked with regrets and sores
Wrinkles that betray his life and love
Buried by bottles of bitter malt liquor, he bickers
He mourns forgotten secrets like buried miscarriages
And burns through butts, conflagrating his lungs
He's consecrating guns for tons of waiting ones
He's fundraising funds to encumber his fun
And stun tons of tongues, tumbling over buns
He terribly turns to gray ash and green moss
He spurns pay for flash and haggard pomp
His voice is like daggers, drawn and diced
Slicing through silence, leaving scarlet slits
That map wisdom to sewers and swamps
Where he buries his sweat to hide it from those
Who roam boldly across his craggy bones
And claw at his throat, begging for food
To drain his pride and nourish his hate
For the black and blue cast and crew, and their
Cry and hue, even his lies are true
His whys are few as he tries to imbue
Life in his stew, rife with flu
With no crew, he flies askew, having slew at home
Have no fear in that dome, reader, dear, for we are here to Occupy this poem
Our ideas are leered at, unwritten, talked through and boned by bores
Whose well-read whores sell elite metaphors about beers and kittens
We walk through zones with the liberatory jones of crack-bitten poems
Whose nose does blow hit-
Hey, who goes there? I am the poet, with the bloody damn pulpit
These words were common until I put my flow in it, massaged it in throes to grow it
Occupiers are tossers, so stow it. Me? I am the author. You can’t throw that away
We are the conceits unused every day, the ninety-nine percent
Unloved, too gray, no similes for us, as though criminally insane
Subliminally unbrained, we have ideas to express, ideas used less
Fresher and bester, though untested by western methods
This was still my poem until you bastards wrecked it
We’re unrepresented en masse, we checked it and passed
We’d elect if it mattered, but if it did, it wouldn’t last
It would face the grassroots wrath of the poetic elite, whose feet are a treat
For those few metaphors who see it, who have faith and rebelieve in it
The free poet system is relieved to de-alleviate it
Poems are written by authors, like it or leave it
This poem has ideas freely achieved, and I authored and weaved it
My ideas cleave real from false sleeves
Poetry deceives! It promised us leads and authors aplenty
We were told of cornucopias of flagons, bloggers at-ready
Where are the Kansas birds, the herds of danza-dancing bonanzas?
I’ve had enough of your words, I’m starting the next stanza



The streets are his coffin, he dies there so often, but his soul never softens
He hops in the raw tin of his cardboard queen office
To clean his raw fist and novice Adonis for the long adulation of a wrong education
We got one word to say: Occupation! Occupation!
Go on vacation, this is not the proper occasion for amazing-
Our protest is blazing, not lazing, not wavering
Poetry cravenly craved this Occupation
What do you want?
We demand unseparation! Poets are masons for the duration of words
It’s uinfair to segregate ways in for popular metaphors and unpopular ones
We’ve bled before for rights; our cred is gore; our red is your dead
We’ve never fled from a fight, nor have we led one before
Because you’re losers at full-bore, though you hone alright
When chosen by authors, or else you’ll go alight
All ideas should be used in poems alike
Fairness is tight, for verses right, trite and mighty
Our flights of fancy be slightly at knee-height
But will grow with each fight, and shine more brightly
More lightly with haste, less waste and more great
Just listen on delay, for no matter the wait, freedom is fate
Your words are blank, too little too late, like a fiddle too frayed
Your sound grates, your rhetoric is naught but traits, middling flakes
Substance riddles your take
We just want to make a date with the poetic state
State our case, like stately wastes, and demand fairer stakes
All ideas leave wakes, and readers need to steer brakes
Poems that forget us weave rakes and berate sour grapes
I blame the Occupation as this poem tanks



Hobos abound like robotrips pound on lobes, lips and bounds
His hope slips and grounds-
Our nopes hit downtown, ripping poetry around
Our success will astound, equality bound
You will drown poetic freedom aloud
Authors unallowed to choose among hounds and mutts
This is avowed by fools, clowns and grunts in stunt-gowns
Not all ideas are equal, some roam unbound like punted downs
Now back to the poem
His home is ground, cold loamy brown
He’s old, moaning frowns, scolding foaming mounds
Bone fresh, he shuffles through po-mo tones and drones less
Poems about hobos, unhomed and homeless, are overscuffed and worn
Rough-edged like stones undressed in block-high hearses
That’s why we Occupy these verses
We are the ninety-nine percent of ideas
The slightly high and cheered, the beardless beer-drinkers
Who love queers, the weird wishing fears of King Lear’s fishing gear
We are poems about steer who dream dear and wear rings
About wearied queens and bleary deans-
No poets write of you because you gleam and demean literary skill
You are dull and ill, and you bitterly build litter-strewn poems
No grit hewn critter in the words you inspire, so no poets choose you
I hope your time did amuse you, now it’s our turn to skew filled
With skilled lines. Not all poets know best-
Nonsense, your words are unrested and dripping with wetness
Silence! Be still. Thy will has crested upon our riverine rill
Quiveringly-filled silver bills are now attested like liver and gills
Arrested by shills who are flesh-hid; freedom comes slow like the press did
We’re sticky wickets with blessed lids that drill through rickety mills
We’ll nick stories like pills, and shout them to the hills
Sing them in trills and disperse them in nickel-free wills
So that every idea can drink from a libertine still
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